Death Walks Among You
by SapphFrost
Summary: "To have died once is enough." Virgil (Tracer catches her newest teammate in a rare moment of reflection. Reaper wants the ever-optimistic British woman to leave him alone as he wallows in his misery, but of course the time-traveling Overwatch agent won't leave well enough alone.)
1. Let Things Lie

Tracer catches her newest teammate in a rare moment of reflection. Reaper wants the ever-optimistic British woman to leave him alone as he wallows in his misery, but of course the time-traveling Overwatch agent won't leave well enough alone.

 **/**

 _"To have died once is enough." Virgil_

 **/**

"I never would have pegged _you_ as the sentimental type."

The harbinger of Death casts a glance over his shoulder, letting his clawed glove drop to his side. The soft scraping sound it makes against the glass window seems loud in the stillness as he looks at the chipper young British woman standing in the doorway.

Tracer waits for a burst of anger from the mysterious former Talon agent. She's only ever seen him in combat situations, where the wraith embodies fury and death in everything he's said or done. She watches him closely for a long moment before he strides forward towards her, footsteps heavy and loud as they break the silence.

She rocks back a little, going rigid and her hands spasm, on the verge of drawing her pistols from the holsters on her arms.

But the Reaper doesn't reach around to grasp the shotguns belted behind him. Even as he stalks towards her, she notices how he carefully keeps his darkly gloved hands in full view. His form trails black, shadowy mist at the edges as he tries to push past her.

Their shoulders clip and it throws her back a step. She watches him freeze with a harsh breath.

Tracer narrows her eyes, fully prepared to tell the vision of Death to buzz off. She isn't about to let him rage at her about something that is his fault! "Oh, come off it, now! I'm not trying to start nothin'. We're s'pose to be on the same team now. I just wanted to come up and say hi and see how you were taking things. We've fought a couple of times and I wanted to make sure there weren't any bad feelings between us. After all-"

The former Talon agent lifts a hand sharply, cutting the usually bright, young British woman off from her indignant rambling with a start. Tracer jerks back, rare fear blossoming in her clear brown eyes.

Silence hangs between them, heavy with fear that he can almost taste. Something in his chest he thought had died years ago aches dully. The chipper, confident, spunky young woman-who'd been almost like family to him-is completely rattled in his presence. And that hasn't bothered him till now...

She watches warily as the wraith-like figure slowly lowers his hand, curling it into a fist which he presses into his side. He's beginning to blur at the edges, and Tracer can no longer clearly see the rise and fall of his chest. All she knows is his heavy breathing, which sounds like it is being drawn in from between clenched teeth, rasps loudly in the small observation room.

The Reaper turns away again, with a harsh sound of frustration that she wonders if he realizes he's let out, and Tracer instinctively reaches out again, placing her hand solidly on his shoulder. "Wait, please! Sorry! I'm so sorry!" God, she sounds like Mei, apologizing like this! "I just don't know what to say, but I know I want you to feel welcome. There's already so much opposition to Overwatch... I can't bear to see us torn apart from the inside again!"

"Don't get your hopes up..." he responds, voice so quiet and harsh with what she has to guess is disuse that she has to strain to hear him. "It's just a matter of time."

She frowns angrily, at first assuming he's making a threat, and her chest rises with an indignant protest hot on her tongue, when she registers his tone. It is neither soft nor gentle, but-after playing his words over in her mind-she picks up an undertone of dismay to his words.

"Why would you say that?!" She demands instead, the hurt in her tone reflected in the scrunched up form of her eyebrows and the way her mouth twists in displeasure. Her grip on his shoulder tightens, and in a blink she's standing directly in front of him again, her other hand is balled into an angry fist at her side. "You don't know _what_ we've struggled through! We can get through this! We have to!"

He laughs. It starts as a slow, gurgling rumble which builds into a rasping guffaw that leaves him breathless and his sides aching. All the while Tracer just stares at him, righteously angry, her brows pulled down and her jaw muscles spasming as she grits her teeth.

"This is serious!" She snaps angrily, glaring. "Quit your laughing!"

It takes another moment but when he can speak again, the Reaper simply lets out a darkly amused snort and shakes his head. "I understand all to well what Overwatch has been through... That's why I know this is going to _fail_ yet again."

The wraith intends to leave it at that, and turns to ghost through Tracer, letting go fully of his corporeal form. What takes him off guard, as he loses what should be any amount of tangibility, is that Tracer's grip on his shoulder doesn't move. He jerks his head back to look her full in the face, his breath coming a touch faster, a little more ragged. She stares back with a quizzical look, confused by pretty much everything he's said so far-what little of it there is.

"How could you possibly understand...?" She asks in astonishment, clearly trying to understand. _Needing_ to understand. She feels like she's missed something that should have been obvious now that he's said what he has. But what? "What aren't you telling us?!" Tracer demands sharply.

He just stares at her, wondering how she can be keeping him here, fixed in place, unable to pass through her. He hasn't realized until now just how much he's come to accept the ability and utilize it, despite his loathing of what he's become.

She stares back in return, searching his masked face for something. Anything.

The wraith's breathing, harsh and heavy, fills the void between them for several long moments, and just when Tracer's all but given up any hope of getting something more from him he breaks the silence once more.

"Winston was right. You picked up that damn stubborn look from me."

Tracer's eyes narrow slightly for just a moment, full of confusion, doubt, and suspicion, before the realization smacks her full-force. The usually bright young woman stumbles back, jerking her hand from his shoulder and drawing it to her chest like she's just been burned.

"No..." She gasps before smacking her back into the wall next to the door. She hardly even seems aware of it as she stammers on in shock. "No! Gabriel's _dead_! You're _dead!_ "

This kind of reaction-shocked, aghast, even repulsed-usually would have brought the harbinger of Death some joy, or at the very least amusement; but today, right now, he can only stare at the young woman with whom he's worked with for years. Who he very recently made a not-inconsequential attempt to kill, a rising feeling of emptiness threatening to swallow him.

"Sometimes I wish that were so," he rasps, tone heavy and cold. But mainly tired. So very tired.

"Mercy!" Tracer blurts, determination lighting her eyes. Reflected in the sudden set in her jaw. "Mercy can help. Mercy can fix anything! She always knows what to do. I mean, there's got to be _something_ -!"

The British woman moves to make a dash for the doorway, and this time it is the Reaper who reaches out, his clawed grasp catching her coat. He hauls her back and shoves her into the wall with a guttural sound of pure fury. Tracer freezes, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest, eyes wide with fear at his unexpected display. The wraith is once again positively radiating ghostly black smoke. He's barely there, and she's all too familiar with how that feels. Just not this rage that burns him from the inside.

" _Mercy_ is the reason I am the way I am. _Mercy_ did this to me!"

He feels her try to recoil, like he's just slapped her with the force of his words-which he can understand why; he's positively spitting with anger-but she can't move any further with her back scraping against the wall and she's not strong enough to overpower him.

The harbinger of Death continues fiercely without prompting. " _Talon_ took one of Angela's untested designs. One she was _foolish_ enough to leave unsecured and unprotected. They used it on me, turning me into this _thing_ , hanging halfway between life and _death_!"

Reaper is positively radiating fury, black mist enveloping him, leaving him barely visible. His grip threatens to crack her clavicle, she feels the talon-like tips of his gloves nick her skin through her jacket and under suit, and breathing is proving somewhat difficult. But Tracer watches him with wide eyes soft with sympathy.

"You're still in there, Gabe," Tracer persists, reaching up to put a hand on his forearm. She feels him go rigid, like he's expecting a fight. "Talon can't take away who you are! They can't take that from you."

"There wasn't anything _left_ to take when they found me-trapped in a crevice under a couple tons of concrete. Every bone in my body shattered. Internal organs ruptured. One lung collapsed. And for some _god_ awful reason still _alive!_ Any purpose I ever had _died_ the day they took Overwatch from me. The day _Jack_ took Overwatch from me! That _stupid_ farm boy from Indiana. I didn't _have_ to take him under my wing but I _did_! Can't believe I ever took _pity_ on his sorry ass..."

Even as the Reaper vents on and on in anger, his fierce grip on Tracer's shoulder lessens, and slowly she can begin to see the edges of his frame through the black smoke that had fully enveloped him. When he is finished, the tiredness has returned to his voice, leaving him sounding cold and empty. The heaviness of his hand on her shoulder-grip slack-tells her that if she wasn't in the way his hand would have dropped to his side by now.

"C'mon love... I still believe in you. I still believe you're in there, Gabe," the young British woman insists, tone soft. She gives his arm a gentle squeeze. Most of the tension has bled out of him at this point, and she watches the proud set of his shoulders sag under the weight of his own exhaustion. His hand finally does drop to his side, slipping through her fingers. She doesn't resist the movement.

The silence reigns once more, and though she knows it's faint she hears the quiet, labored rasp of his breathing.

"Don't count on it," he murmurs finally, turning away once again. She doesn't stop him as he departs through the doorway to the observation room. Tracer understands that her old friend needs some space. He's been through more than she can imagine, and his heart is weighed down by more costly decisions she can even begin to fathom right now. But he's here, surrounded by old and new friends. Maybe here he can begin to heal.


	2. Boundaries of Life and Death

_"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?" Edgar Allan Poe_

 **/**

Tracer should have known this was going to happen sooner rather than later.

Soldier: 76 stands on the far side of Gibraltar's communication platform, previously Winston's main living space in the massive base, rigid and radiating hatred as his glowing red visor stays sharply fixed on the Reaper across the room, who stands equally fixed in place.

Not surprisingly, Soldier: 76's real identity had not remained as much of a secret as she figured Jack had hoped for. He'd remained unknown for a handful of heists, leaving everyone in his wake alarmed by the clearly enhanced vigilante, but it hadn't taken his friends or the Public long to recognize the former Overwatch commander John Morrison running around as the vigilante known as Solder: 76.

Consequently, it is no secret around Watchpoint: Gibraltar that their beloved commander is currently residing in their base of operations, among the collection of old and new Overwatch agents that have responded to Winston's call.

What most everyone doesn't know-or, well, _didn't_ before now-is the ghostly vision of Death called Reaper, the former Talon agent, is none other than their former Blackwatch commander Gabriel Reyes.

At least, Tracer assumes she was the only one. Aside from Jack. And maybe Mercy who is standing there looking calmly alarmed. (Tracer didn't realize that such an expression was possible but Mercy is _definitely_ managing it so alright.)

" _Reyes_ ," S76 has just hissed, one of a mere handful of words he's said since arriving about two weeks ago. He hasn't been very social, and this is the first time anyone has seen him step into a room with more than one or two people present.

It is clear to Tracer that Jack has been planning this confrontation for some time now, and it's equally clear the Reaper has been waiting for it. He doesn't flinch at the harsh, guttural tonal range the Soldier has been limited to, or the utter loathing with which his name is spoken; unlike the cheerful British woman who tenses sharply. Reaper's talon-tipped hands do instinctively twitch, clearly longing to draw his paired shotguns, but for now he holds back.

Every eye in the room is drawn to the two men, and Tracer can only spare a half a second to catch Winston's look of heavy realization (laced with no small amount of criticism aimed at the figure in the dark trench coat), Reinhardt's expression of cautious concern (Tracer realizes with a start it is aimed at _both_ men) as his tired eyes evenly survey the two soldiers, and of course Mercy's own carefully-mitigated look of alarm (she has to guess it isn't with Gabe's state of being... somewhat alive, but is instead of the confrontation between two men she cares so much for-as patients or not had always been and probably will once again be a rumour to circulate around the team.)

"You must _really_ be getting old if it took you _this_ long to connect the dots," the harbinger of Death spits out lowly in response, and even with the mask he's obviously glowering at his former-friend.

"I've known for a _long_ time, Reyes. Just been too busy with cleaning up the _mess_ you left us with to _deal_ with you," S76 quips sharply and it's clear that this strikes the intended nerve in the Reaper because his hands reach around behind him to grasp the handles of his dual shotguns.

Tracer notices the fraction of a second he hesitates, thumbs hovering over the claps.

Soldier: 76 draws his pulse rifle off his back with the rapid efficiency a soldier of his renown is known for. By the time Reaper finishes bringing his own weapons to bear he already has a red bead of light resting square in the middle of his chest.

It shouldn't be possible, but it is clear that the harbinger of Death's expression hardens and he lets his shotguns lower slowly to rest at his sides. Whisps of black mist radiate off his frame and the Reaper glares at the man pointing a gun at him.

" _Do it_ ," he hisses darkly with a low rasp. "Just do it, then."

The furrow of S76's brows lower a little further in a critical frown, and it's clear he is wondering for just a moment what the catch is, but then Tracer sees the way he settles himself. Her eyes widen.

"NO!" The young woman launches herself forward, sprinting across the room between the two enemies in order to throw herself in the way.

Tracer doesn't know what she's doing, but she can't bear to see these two old friends kill one another. She just _can't_ stand by and watch it happen. Not when they've finally gotten Overwatch back together. Not after everything that's already happened!

It takes the Reaper completely flat-footed when Tracer throws herself in front of him with a shout, now suddenly placing herself right in the line of fire, even as he sees Morrison's finger squeeze the trigger.

 _Well, **shit**_ , he thinks to himself; a sinking feeling settles in his gut. Before he can second guess himself, the Reaper wraps his arms around the spunky British woman, knowing-no matter what-he isn't going to phase through her and spins them both around.

He sees the flash in the corner of his eye and feels the burst of bullets slam into the weak armour he has on his back, followed immediately by the salvo of Helix rockets the Reaper knows the Soldier released on pure reflex. The explosion knocks him off his feet, but he keeps his arms wrapped tightly around Tracer as they hit the floor together, tumbling a few paces before the Reaper throws out an arm to halt their progress.

Absolute silence fills the room.

"Gabe?" Tracer shifts, spinning around and sitting up to look at the former Talon agent with great concern. She sees the actual smoke sizzling off the singed edges of his coat, and that's without even seeing the extent of the damage to his back.

The Reaper lets out a groan and forces his elbow up under him. She can't see his expression under the mask, but every taught line in his body says he's in pain.

She bites her lip, her heart twisting with regret. She should've been faster. Maybe if she'd tried to stop Jack instead of throwing herself in the middle. Maybe if she'd confronted her former leader and old friend earlier. Maybe, maybe, maybe!

"Tracer...?" The British woman hears her name tentatively spoken by a broken voice, but it isn't the Reaper. She turns to look at Jack who's standing across the room, rifle lowered now as it hangs loosely in his hands. It's more difficult with his mask (she's quietly astounded that she can read Gabriel like a book, despite the fact that he's covered head to toe in black and wears a full mask, but with Jack, who's forehead she can see, it is more difficult), but the tilt of his brows-while still harsh-have lifted slightly with concern.

Tracer wants to believe that-had the Soldier's mind not been so muddled by a haze of hatred and revenge-he could have stopped himself in time. And she _knows_ that Jack is still in there somewhere. The edge of concern in his tone proves it. But what he's become is as much, if not even more, a shadow of himself as the Reaper is of Gabriel Reyes.

"I'm _fine_ ," the usually chipper British woman snaps, tearing her gaze from her former commander in order to look over at Mercy. The Swiss doctor is standing there, absolutely still, and while she doesn't have her Valkyrie suit on, that's never stopped her from trying to help people in the past. "Mercy, do something! For crying out loud, Gabe's _injured_!"

" _No_ ," the Reaper on the floor rasps with a growl and as Tracer turns to make a quick remark about how he needs medical attention after the beating he just took, she realizes with a start he's almost completely enveloped in a swirling mass of shadowy mist.

She sees in the corner of her eye when Soldier: 76 grips his weapon tightly, obviously expecting trouble. Nearby, Winston leans forward heavily on his knuckles, an aggressive and simultaneously wary stance. Reinhardt takes a step towards her, and consequently the swirling back thing that is Gabriel, but his posture is a neutral force. Tracer makes a mental note to thank the older gentleman for it later, because Mercy sure as hell isn't acting as a mediator right now!

After a long, drawn-out moment, the Reaper's figure-barely distinguishable through the thick, black cloud-seems to rise and the mist dissipates enough that actual features become clear again. He's still radiating thick tendrils of smoke which cling to him, but somehow he seems a little more whole, a little less injured, though his stance is still rigid. Reaper turns to look at her and she knows he's silently rebuking her for having stepped in. He won't say it aloud. His pride won't allow him to explain his actions, either to protect her or otherwise. But it's clear the former Talon agent knew all along that even if S76 had unleashed everything he had at him, it wouldn't have mattered.

He's always halfway between life and death, neither one ever claiming him as their own.

Reaper turns to send a narrow look at his former friend. The Soldier's brows furrow heavily into a glare once again. "What?" S76 demands of the man in the black coat. "You want a free shot, too?"

"No. Just marveling at how far you've fallen, after all the bullshit you used to always give me." And for a moment, Tracer hears Gabe under that cold, rasping tone. The snarky lilt of his that he always used whenever he wasn't ordering people around as Overwatch's team leader, most frequently chiding the young, impulsive farm boy he always kept by his side.

"At least I don't _kill_ people," Soldier: 76 snarls, and Tracer can hear the way the leather of his glove creaks with the force of his grip on his rifle. "You've been hunting down Overwatch agents for how many years, now? 5? 6?"

Tracer spots movement at the hallway entrance to the communications room. Naturally, she realizes with a small grimace, the sounds of weapons discharging would attract attention. She spots the bright red of McCree's poncho and his wide-brimmed hat, a cigar clenched between his teeth. Genji peers past the gunslinger's shoulder, expression impossible to read, leaning to the side a little as McCree's hat blocks no small amount of the doorway. curiously leans on the ninja for balance as she peers even further to the side in order to see past the two taller men. They're all in some way or another clearly prepared for a potential fight, their readiness ranging from a hand resting on their weapon all the way to having it at the ready.

And while it's clear no one misses that they are steadily gaining more of an audience, neither the Reaper or the Soldier do anything to acknowledge it.

"Do you remember what you told me when Amelie killed Gerard?" the harbinger of Death asks lowly, tone cold once again. Soldier: 76's brows arch down a little further. "You told me not to hunt her down. That it wasn't her fault. That it was Talon's, for what they did to her."

"You can't possibly think that you deserve-" The Soldier snarls, but the Reaper raises a hand sharply, not waiting for the other man to stop talking before responding.

"I'm not saying I _deserve_ anything," he retorts shortly, an annoyed clip to his cold, empty voice. "We both know I've never been good at playing the _good_ guy. All I'm saying is don't go pointing fingers when you don't know shit about what's really happening."

"What's _really happening_? What's _really happening_?! What's really happening is you helping Talon try to steal the Doomfist Gauntlet! You systematically hunting down Overwatch agents and _murdering_ them! You used Blackwatch to purposefully sabotage Overwatch because you were _selfish_. Don't you dare suggest I don't know what's _really_ _happening_!"

The former Talon agent leans forward a little, his broad frame stiff and radiating anger as thick tendrils of black smoke coil around him, but before he can retort, Reinhardt moves from where he stands near Tracer and Reaper to position himself in view of both men (not quite between them, Tracer notes, probably taking a tip from her mistake) and lifts his hands in a placating gesture.

"My friends, this is getting us nowhere. Please, I beg of you... stop with the accusations," the old German interjects, voice strong but kind and gentle.

It is painfully clear how much S76 wants to continue with his rant. His ragged breathing is loud in the room and Tracer can hear the way he's set his teeth in a snarl. There's still so much he's keeping pent up inside-so much rage within him. It is difficult to see Jack Morrison under the raw hatred that is Soldier: 76. For Tracer, it's almost easier to see Gabriel Reyes inside of Reaper, even after having fought against him-which is weird, she will admit.

But somewhere deep down... a Soldier's restraint still remains. Slowly he straightens from his aggressive posture, painstakingly reeling back his rage with every ounce of self-control it seems Jack still possesses. The Reaper doesn't miss how the other man's glare is still fixed on him, the red gash that is the visor trying to burn him away, but it can't. So instead, Soldier: 76 simply turns away and strides back out the door to the communications room through which he'd not too many minutes earlier entered. Those who are standing in the doorway, namely Lucio and Mei, press themselves back to make room for the Soldier to leave.

And when he is gone, silence reigns once more.

Reaper turns away, intending to leave before the time bomb that is everyone who just witnessed this altercation goes off, but he feels a heavy hand settle carefully on his shoulder.

Tracer sees him stiffen when Reinhardt reaches out, even with the older gentleman being as softhearted as possible without offending the prideful harbinger of Death. She's convinced that if it had been anyone but Reinhardt, or herself (after all, Gabe has just saved her from grievous injury), he'd have shot them point blank in the chest.

"Gabriel... please don't let this turn you away from us. We need you here now, just as we did before. We are a _family_. Families have disagreements, but that doesn't have to divide us. We are here for you," Reinhardt persists kindly, now giving the Reaper's shoulder a reassuring pat before retracting his hand.

"Speak for yourself."

Reinhardt sends McCree a disapproving look, but the gunslinger just tilts his head and juts his chin forward, not at all apologetic. Tracer winces slightly, and glances at Gabe, but he seems to simply shrug the scorn from his old protege off. She watches the former Talon agent as he shifts his attention momentarily to the German, who wordlessly acknowledges the look, before allowing a swirl of black mist envelope him. When it dissipates, the Reaper is gone...


	3. Interlude

**Author's note: So I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has followed, favourited, and commented on this piece so far, and everyone who will. You guys seriously inspire me to keep writing. Ya'll are amazing. And for all the nameless and guest haters who commented about how much this 'sucks', you know what? You didn't have to read it. If you have something critical to say, say it, but don't just say 'this sucks'. Tell me why. Help me fix it. You took the time to write a handful of letters, after already reading the damn thing. Tell me why. Anyway, that's the end of my rant. Sorry for cluttering up the beginning of this, guys. Once again, thanks for everyone who is and has supported me through this!**

 **(Now updated with a better-sounding French accent, thanks to InkRoze! Thanks, dear!)**

 **/**

 _"You'll have time to rest when you're dead." Robert De Niro_

 **/**

He finds her on top of the catwalks in the hanger that holds the Aurora OSS-7. The Reaper doesn't except a warm greeting. There is nothing about Amelie that is warm anymore, not even the feel of her skin. So he isn't all that taken aback when she throws a glare over her shoulder at him as he approaches.

"What?" he demands lowly, still not in a great mood after his encounter with Soldier: 76. He hadn't expected anything better from his former friend, but he realizes now that he hadn't been fully prepared for what happened, either.

The Widowmaker stares at him through half-lidded eyes, an expression that might make any man's heart burn for her, except that the Reaper knows she means absolutely nothing by the look. He also knows she uses that look to deflect the attention of other people away from something that's important. The assassin disarms her opponents with unfeeling charm before moving in for the kill. He's never felt so grateful to be able to flip the same unfeeling switch as she does when he's with her.

"You think I should've handled that _differently_?" the Reaper scoffs when the other Talon agent-former Talon agent-remains silent.

"I zink you should 'ave killed zem all," Amelie retorts coldly, and Gabriel doesn't miss the way her ochre irises brighten with the thought. It shouldn't bother him. The harbinger of Death has been conditioned to so much violence and death now that the idea of everyone in that room laying bloodied and broken on the floor shouldn't bother him. But the image of Tracer or Reinhardt slowly bleeding out from a shotgun wound to the gut does.

"We're not here for that..." Reaper quips lowly, now striding over to where a pile of crates have been stacked to lean against them. He's tired, and Widowmaker knows it. Her eyes follow his every movement as he braces his hip against a metal box and folds his arms over his chest. They linger on the sickly, parchment-white skin of his biceps, barely visible between his fingers. The assassin looks vaguely thoughtful for a moment, and he glares at her.

She brings her gaze back up to his masked face and a smirk plays across her glossy blue lips. The Widowmaker waits a few moments longer, clearly trying to draw out the uncomfortable feeling from her ally, but the Reaper just waits. Amelie has things to get off her chest, clearly, but she's trying to gain superiority in the conversation first, which he isn't going to let her have.

Finally, she breaks the silence. "'Zen why are we 'ere, Reaper? What are we doing amidst our enemies? Talon didn't send us 'ere."

 _We're here because this is our family._ It's the first thing that he wants to say, but knows he shouldn't. He can't trust her with that. Reaper can't trust her at all. She's not programmed to work with partners. She's not programmed to be _loyal_ to them. For god's sake, she almost left him to Tracer and Winston back at the museum. But lately, she hasn't been acting completely within the parameters of her programming. She's slipping, and Reaper doesn't know why, but if Amelie is pushing back then the last place the assassin needs to be is near or around Talon.

The Widowmaker is still waiting for a response, though, a moody tilt to her hip and one slim brow arched impatiently. The Reaper lets out a quiet, raspy breath before replying. "I can't explain right now. Suffice it to say it's better we are here."

For a fraction of a second, he thinks there's something there in her eyes. They seem to shift momentarily but then it's gone. She quirks a brow at him and he knows she's confused by what he's said. But she loves games of mystery and intrigue and he's just given her a puzzling one for to try to wrap her brain around. He, Reaper, the most wanted terrorist-the most wanted man-in the word, returning to Overwatch (and dragging her along) after years of hunting down and killing their agents. It's enough of a conundrum to make anyone curious... He hopes it's enough to keep her here until Amelie can come back.

The Reaper rocks back to his feet and turns to leave. The Widowmaker doesn't protest, like he knows she wouldn't. She's neither often outspoken nor conversational. But he knows her eyes follow his every movement as he makes his way along the catwalks before disappearing through the door, leaving the hangar and the assassin behind him.

The harbinger of Death has, for most of the time he's been here, lingered in the shadows, remaining just visible enough during the day that the majority of the team has no legitimate reason to suspect he's up to mischief and devious doings about their base. At night he would find the most quiet, secluded place at the watchpoint to hole up. It is tempting, after the confrontation he's just had with Jack, but Reaper instead turns towards the habitation suites the base here has, finding the path uncomfortably familiar.

He knows this post well-he's been stationed here a couple of times during a variety of campaigns and as a resting spot when travelling to others. At one point, he might've considered this place one of many homes, if he'd ever let himself actually get attached to any place in particular. Since leaving L.A. behind him, the wretched stink of mixing street garbage and shit on one side of the city and suffocatingly-sweet redolence and aristocratic assholes on the other, Gabriel has never wanted to get attached to any particular place. Not after the violence-and trauma that went along with it-that had been his childhood left him with a fear of attachments and a hatred of anything labeled a 'home'.

It seems the majority of the new Overwatch team have claimed a collection of habitation suites near the main entrance, all clustering together. Names have been posted on the card slots below the number of the room, some printed on a sheet of paper, others scrawled neatly in pen, a few marked in quick pencil, and two a little ways down scribbled thickly in what looks like Crayon. Reaper keeps walking, seeing none listed either as Jack Morrison or his more recent code name Soldier: 76. It's not hard to picture, like himself, the old soldier prefers seclusion and privacy to the companionship of old (and new) friends.

Eventually, Reaper finds a suitable room far enough down a side-hall that he doesn't expect anyone to easily locate him. He doesn't label the clean white card under the room number, just goes inside and locks the door behind him. The key card sits on the little table placed in the small dining space between the wall of the bedroom beyond and the tiny-ass kitchenette right off the entryway. It isn't grand, but he doesn't need grand. It is clean, and relatively safe, and that's all that matters.

He pulls one of the two chairs out, angles it at the door just the same, and parks himself there in order to disarm. It's a relaxing act disassembling his paired shotguns and giving them a thorough cleaning and after the day he's just had he could use something to help him de-stress.

A little less than an hour and a half later, the Reaper has cleaned both shotguns from the inside out, getting every bit of dirt and sand from every corner and niche of the upper, lower, barrel, bolt, and everything in between before reassembling them and lubricating them. Task complete he stands, letting himself retire to the back bedroom.

The angel of Death doesn't sleep much. He never really has, even from about as far back as he can actually recall. Well. Except for the 5-10 minute naps he would catch occasionally-hand flung over his face to block out the light from the fixtures-back when Overwatch was nothing more than a half a dozen misfit soldiers brought together by extreme circumstances and desperate governments. Jack used to sit there on that shabby little couch next to him and would nudge him just a little if a superior officer entered.

Rage boils up, hot and unexpected, in his chest, suffocating him as he lets out snarl of fury in the darkness. He swings around, slamming his fist into the nearest object-which turns out to be the wall next to the bed. The metal buckles with a groan of protest and the Reaper feels the vibrations travel up his knuckles, into his wrist, and all the way up his arm, through his elbow to end in his shoulder, threatening to split him. Not bone. Not muscle. Him. Split him. Fracture him. Send him rippling out in all directions. He can harness this for an ultimate, confrontation-ending move in combat, but it's never fully under control.

Reaper throws himself back on the bed with a heavy, harsh exhale, shutting his eyes and forces himself to focus on nothing but the blackness around him and the sounds of his own breathing. Feels his chest rise as he drags air in from between clenched teeth, and then fall as he forces the air back out, all of it out, until the nothingness inside him grounds him. Quietly, he shifts his position, bringing his still-boot-shod feet up onto the covers on the bed and rests his head on the pillow. The Reaper drags his hood back and carefully slips his mask off, putting it on the nightstand beside him. Only in the darkness does he remove the solid, black balaclava though he's learned to breathe well enough with it on. One hand curls around the grip of a shotgun under the sprawl the tail of his trench coat makes, and it is only then that the harbinger of Death feels comfortable to let sleep take him for a few hours.


	4. A Spider's Web

**Author's note: Just wanted to say thank you again to** ** _everyone_** **who's favourited, followed, and commented on this story! I'm doing my best here and ALL the support I'm getting on this fic just gives me so much joy! I know some people were looking for a little more violence. I feel like I've tried to balance that with some character exposition in this most recent chapter. I've also got a fic about pre-canon Reaper, which will probably be posted by the time I actually get this chapter out there. PLEASE go check it out!**

 **And one last thing, I just wanted to recommend Midwestern-Duchess to anyone who likes reading about Reaper, Mercy, or Widowmaker! Seriously! Her stuff is absolutely AMAZING!**

 **EDIT: Fixed an issue near the end where I'd written stuff in my head on not on the page... Sorry about that, folks! Should make more sense, now.**

 **/**

 _"Acting like you don't care is not letting it go." -Penelope Douglas_

 **/**

Reaper jerks upright to the sounds of a massive explosion, shotgun coming up to point into the darkness, even as he feels the whole building shake. Heartbeat suddenly drumming in his ears, he jerks around to grab the balaclava to tug roughly over his face and wraps his talons around the mask as he surges to his feet.

A second explosion rattles the world, and this time he staggers at the substantially greater shaking, tipping sideways and slamming his shoulder into the wall. The Reaper shoves his mask on, giving the straps a quick pull to cinch it up tight before pushing himself upright and flinging the bedroom door open. He gets a handful of steps down the hallway and almost reaches the front door when once again another tremor shakes the floor. The former Talon agent throws his free hand out to brace momentarily and thumbs the lock before tearing the front door open and lurching into the hallway.

The lights in the hall flicker and he hears worried voices and heavy footsteps. The Reaper jogs to the end of the hall and turns the corner, bringing most everyone in the base into view. All heads turn his way.

Another huge explosion rocks the building, the lights flicker again, and Junkrat gives a little squeak. More than a few people glance his way, and an embarrassed look crosses the junker's face. Awkwardly, he reaches up to rub the back of his neck.

"That wasn't me, mates. I swear!" The slight junker exclaims. The pig of a man behind his friend grunts.

"We're under attack," Mercy announces, gripping her Caduceus staff tightly in one hand, her pistol in the other.

"No duh, doc," Reaper quips lowly, striding forward towards the group when he hears a set of brisk footsteps approaching from a hall not far behind him. He whips about, shotgun coming up and reaching behind him to grab the second one.

Soldier: 76 rounds the corner, rifle held close, and comes up short when faced against the harbinger of Death. Growling, the Reaper slowly lowers his weapon, and after a tense moment so does the Soldier. Another loud explosion causes the lights to flicker and concrete dust to fall from the ceiling. Reaper staggers momentarily, cursing under his breath, and hearing Jack do similarly. Junkrat can be heard giving another little yip.

"That's an H-4 Venom heavy canon," the Reaper reports, now able to identify the distinct sound as it's steadily become louder. "Probably mounted on the back of a Talon dropship."

"What the _hell_ is _Talon_ doing here?" Jack snarls, taking an aggressive step towards him.

Reaper jerks back a step, and just barely stops himself from lifting his gun again and pointing it at the Soldier's chest. He takes a ragged breath and exhales slowly before responding. "I. Don't. _Know_. I'm not _with_ Talon anymore. Maybe you should ask the _monkey_. He hasn't been doing a very good job about keeping his activities here very quiet. It's been on the news."

It seems S76 pulls himself back from advancing further, which is good because the Reaper's only giving him that single free advance before he absolutely kicks the other man's ass. After all, it's 2 am, and he's running on barely an hour's worth of sleep after having already sustained a severe injury and subsequent regeneration of tissue barely a couple hours ago.

Winston, somewhere in the back, fidgets slightly and gives a quiet snort of irritation-whether it is at the Reaper or himself, though, the former Talon agent isn't sure.

"They probably targeted the communications tower first. That was the initial explosion. We likely can't make contact with anyone, short range or long range. Now it sounds like they've turned the H-4 Venom on the cliffside to destroy the hab suites," he asserts heavily, a rasp to his voice. "We probably have less than 10 minutes before this whole area starts to collapse."

"Well, _shit_ ," the Soldier grunts, now turning to survey the whole group before him, in varying states of sleepwear and combat gear. "Everyone listen up!"

Jack's sharp command has everyone's attention, even Junkrat and Mei, who've gotten sidetracked by a hushed argument about what sounds like bullies and explosive devices. Attentive gazes all turn towards their former leader, and Reaper doesn't miss the slight, unsettled shift in the other man's posture before he forcibly shakes it off and continues.

"Winston, what do we have here by way of escape vehicles?" S76 demands, now moving forward past the angel of Death towards the rest of the team.

The gorilla, wearing striped pajama pants and an extra-large button-up sleep shirt, glasses slightly askew on his nose, blinks once. Clearly, he isn't expecting to be asked about avenues of escape, more than likely methods of attack instead, but he responds quickly. "Well, there's the boat you all came in on moored down at the bottom of the cliffs, as well as a single ORCA dropship I've been using since Overwatch was shut down. It was all I could salvage as they were selling or mothballing everything away," Winston adds, sounding somewhat apologetic.

"If that boat hasn't been _blasted_ outta th' water by now, it _definitely_ ain't gonna sustain even a single shot from a Venom!" Torbjorn asserts, taking a step forward and hoisting his backpack over his shoulder a little further. Bastion, from somewhere in the back, gives a worried sounding blat of noise and the bird on its shoulder twitters quietly in displeasure.

"Alright then. Dropship it is. I want everyone to take a minute to grab whatever they can and then we're making a run for the hangar," Jack orders sharply, and almost everyone save for Bastion, Zenyatta, and Genji dart back into their rooms to grab their things. A young woman with long brown hair-Brigitte, Reaper thinks she's been called-mutters about Reinhard's Crusader armour still needing repairs and other things, as metalsmith's do, as she follows after the aging German.

Tracer zips back out only a few moments later, and Reaper resists the urge to flinch as she blips over to stand beside him. She is wearing her usual orange jumpsuit and bomber jacket again, complete with the chronal accelerator strapped around her chest (she'd been wearing it over her pajamas earlier, and he wonders-not for the first time-how she changes quickly without slipping out of this time stream). She leans in close and pulls his hood up over his head and straightens it out. The harbinger of Death grunts, trying to sound irritated, but Tracer just giggles quietly before darting away. Soldier: 76 turns slowly to shoot a critical glare Reaper's way, which he ignores.

"If you turn on us again... I'll make sure I finish the job," S76 threatens lowly, shifting his position just a little, transitioning his weight from foot to foot in an action Gabriel knows is one of Jack's uneasy ticks.

"Don't gotta worry about me, Jack," he responds quietly, and the two men stand there in the silence that follows.

It isn't much longer that what appears to be the whole team is reassembled again in the corridor and are preparing their weaponry for a burst of fighting in order to make it to the hanger with the dropship. Reaper notices Widowmaker is nowhere to be seen, which is unsettling. A hundred questions race through his mind, all of which he shoves to one side to deal with at another time. Right now, he hears the rapid click of boots outside the main doors, and through the coloured, bullet-proof glass sees the shadows of Talon soldiers in black taking up positions outside.

"They've been briefed on some of our fighting styles so be careful and _stick together,_ " the former Talon agent instructs firmly as he takes position not far behind Reinhardt. Tracer appears by his side and flashes a grin his way. He knows it's her way of thanking him for being here. For standing by their side, despite what happened in the past. Reaper won't admit it's her kindness that keeps him here-not aloud at any rate.

The second that Torbjorn hit's the panel to activate the door, everything becomes complete chaos.

Tracer let's out a bright, excited battle cry and leaps forward, flashing past soldiers faster than any eye could perceive, and Genji puts on a burst of speed, dashing forward to land critical blows to several men with his sword before leaping back once more with a flip to take refuge behind Reinhardt's shield. Reaper's shotguns crack loudly over the sounds of the Talon assault rifles turned in what seems to be an endless barrage of laser fire at them. The old German's shield, however, seems to be holding-for now.

From somewhere behind them, Bastion gives a sharp peel of noise that sounds... sort of a mix between a warning and an alert, and Reaper hears the Ominic's canon begin to spin up. He dives to the side, letting himself slip into wraith form as he sees several Talon soldiers train their rifles on him. Their bullets fly through him, passing through the smoke of his form, for just a second or two before he hears what almost can only be likened to drilling as Bastion lets loose. The Reaper can also hear the distinct sound of Torbjorn's turret seeking and eliminating targets one by one.

The first wave of soldiers go down, and the angel of Death casts his spent shotguns to the side with a clatter before drawing a fresh pair. He hears the others behind him push forward, some seeking cover, while others like Zarya and Winston push forward to meet the next rush of soldiers head-on. Reaper turns away from the fighting, casting his gaze up to the somewhat battered buildings above them. Marking his target location-he's been tempted in the past to try stepping to places he can't actually see but hasn't tried it thus-far-he folds his arms over his chest and lets himself disappear. When the darkness fades away again, he's standing on the building above, and advances along the walkways there, heading for the Aurora's hanger.

Honestly, the Reaper is worried that this attack is at least partially his fault. After all, he dragged Amelie with him here when he left Talon behind. He's never really been firmly attached to the terrorist organization but they've never let him forget that it is because of their work that he's alive-if you could call his state of being ' _alive_ '. Widowmaker, though, is a different story. She is completely and utterly devoted to Talon, not necessarily by her own choice but she's been programmed to stay loyal. (Talon tried to do similarly with Reaper, but his unique abilities made that significantly more difficult.) Needless to say, he should've either been more watchful of Widowmaker, or hidden her away from Talon and Overwatch for a while longer until Amelie surfaced a little more.

The angel of Death moves silently, the only noise he makes is the quiet shift of his coat as he sweeps across walkways, through halls, and over catwalks until he is approaching the cargo bay of the Aurora OSS-7. He catches a glimpse of lilac coloured skin, and approaches the sniper's 'nest'. When he takes his first step inside, he has just a moment to glimpse the barrel of a sniper rifle, it's wielder in purple out of focus behind it. Reaper barely has half a second to try to jerk his shotguns up before he sees the flash of the rifle's muzzle. The bullet collides with his chest, ripping through the armour there and pierces straight through, barely an inch from his heart. He hears himself let out a strangled gasp before staggering backwards, colliding with crates and the interior paneling of the ship. The Reaper brings a hand up to the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Widowmaker approaches with a smirk and a sway to her hips, tutting softly under her breath. "Ahhh, _mon cher_ , did you _really_ 'zink 'zat 'zis was going to work out? 'Zat any of 'zis was bound to work out? We are killers. We are _les diables_." She laughs softly, a melodic sound that is at complete odds with Widowmaker's personality. The assassin steps forward and plants her heel firmly against his chest, practically pinning him in place. "We are _murderers..."_

"You contacted Talon," he spits out, lifting his head up to glare at the sniper and wraps his free hand around her ankle.

Widowmaker leans in with a little more pressure to the wound, her heel grinding into his chest and laughs again, light and airy, and so dripping with mockery. "Of course I did... We _are_ Talon. You may try to escape it, but Talon _made_ you just as 'zey made me... You _belong_ to Talon."

Reaper snarls in rage, and his grip around the sniper's ankle tightens. He feels her try to shove him back. She's got a fairly powerful stance, and standing 5'9" she's by no means short. But he's been genetically altered and physically enhanced, and that's before you factor in the rage that fuels him even more right now. He surges forward, throwing her back where she collides with a couple of storage crates. The harbinger of Death staggers momentarily, weaponless and injured, but he knows well over a dozen ways to snap her neck with his bare hands, and full-well intends to do just that.

He throws himself at Widowmaker, hands outstretched and ready for violence when movement on both sides catches his attention. The Reaper feels pairs of small, pronged needles stab him on multiple sides, embedding themselves in his arms and shoulders before the cabling attached is pulled taught. What follows is around 0.2 amps worth of electricity at 10 joules, lasting for 10 agonizingly long seconds, the culmination of which send Reaper straight to the floor.

It only takes him a moment after the pulses have ceased to realize what happened. The assassin knew he'd come after her and so lured him here, disabling him enough for the Talon soldiers to move in with taser equipment. Which is impressive, he'll admit, trying to neutralize him with electricity. He's taken some serious damage, he knows, enough to stop any normal man's heart. But the Reaper is no normal man. He tries to slip into wraith form to let the tazer's prods pass through him but finds himself anchored in one spot instead. Reyes goes rigid.

"Now, now, Reaper..." the Frenchwoman tuts softly from above, her heels appearing in his line of sight. " _Mon cher_ , you 'ad to know we would find some way to 'old you. I really should t'ank 'zat naive little girl... _Tracer_ , is it, _non_? Watching 'er keep you from shifting form was so ' _elpful_ , and 'ze two of you just looked so adorable together..."

The angel of Death snarls lowly, vibrating with anger-or possibly just lingering affects of the tasers-utterly enraged to find that Widowmaker had been watching that entire interaction. He had thought Amelie was resurfacing... that she was coming back to them, and had consequently risked much to get her away from Talon, to bring the both of them here to Watchpoint: Gibraltar. Had none of it been real? Had he been playing into her's and Talon's hands this whole time?

With no small amount of effort, Reaper tries to throw himself forward at the woman, but his effort only gets him a few inches before he feels the cabling yank him back a millisecond before another ten second long surge of 0.2 amps figuratively hammers him to the floor. He can't repress the howl of pain as his muscles all through his body spasm, and the hole in his chest screams agony at him as his ghosting ability is currently repressed, preventing him from going into a full regenerative state.

This time, it takes the Reaper a few moments to recover as he lays on the cold metallic floor, bleeding heavily and rasping sharply as he drags in shaky breaths. Finally, he slowly cranes his head around, following the long legs up until he finally can take in Widowmaker's face. She is, in fact, sneering at him, and he doesn't miss the brightness in her ochre eyes. "Just tell me this one thing..." he hisses out lowly.

He watches as her expression ripples with curiosity and amusement, and she bends over to lean closer to him, quirking one brow up. "Alright," Widowmaker agrees softly.

"What did it feel like to kill Gerard...?" Reyes demands, his gaze boring into her.


	5. Angels and Demons

_"See the worst of me, and try to love me despite all the dark you find." –Tyler Knott Gregson_

 **/**

 _"Just tell me this one thing..." Reaper hisses out lowly._

 _He watches as her expression ripples with curiosity and amusement, and she bends over to lean closer to him, quirking one brow up. "Alright," Widowmaker agrees softly._

 _"What did it feel like to kill Gerard...?" Reyes demands, his gaze boring into her._

He feels a rush of satisfaction as he sees her eyes widen slightly, the smirk falling from her expression. Amelie's whole body goes rigid for a moment and Reaper knows, he _knows_ , that she's still in there. He thinks, for half a second, she subconsciously murmurs under her breath an answer, _'that was the day I died',_ but the end is difficult to read, and in the next instant her features have gone cold once again, eyes sharp and narrow.

The Widowmaker turns away from him swiftly, her ebony hair snapping around with the movement, like she's dismissed him completely. But Reaper knows he's gotten under her skin, and gives a low chuckle-which is unfortunately short-lived due to the hole in his chest. She continues to ignore him and instead barks out an order to a group of soldiers to his left.

"Continue wit' 'ze pulses. Don't try to tie 'im up until you are absolutely certain 'e is unconscious," the French assassin instructs coldly. One soldier nods, and Reaper has only a fraction of a second to try to resist, despite the way his limbs are completely strung up, before a third pulse of electricity floors him. He bites his tongue so hard in an attempt to remain silent that he tastes even more blood than he already does, but it still doesn't stop him from groaning in agony.

Smirking in sheer delight, Widowmaker moves to exit the Aurora. She makes it a single step before a trio of Helix missiles fly over the Reaper's head and collide with the group of soldiers holding onto the cables' tazer attachments for their rifles, throwing them back. Two fall off the sides of the catwalk behind them, and make the two story fall to the ground below, the third colliding bodily with the side hatch of the vessel, and the concussive force of the blast knocks the sniper flat on her ass where she hits her head hard on the metal flooring.

Still writhing on the floor with a good 8 seconds to go before the automatic shut-off for the mechanism is triggered, the angel of Death listens to two sets of pulse weapons go off, the first distinctly an assault rifle fired in practiced pulses for precision accuracy, the second a steady stream of lazer fire from what it sounds like is at least two guns. He hears three more bodies collide with the ground and two worried voices shout an almost simultaneous "Gabe!"

Painfully, Reaper manages to crane his head around towards the sounds and sees Jack, Tracer, and Angela all in the doorway to the cargo hold, the first two being the ones to actually take down the Talon soldiers, the latter two being the ones to say his name. Jack seems carefully neutral, except for the slight furrow of his brow. Tracer looks suitably aghast at the sight of torture they've come across. And Angela looks so full of anguish—and Gabriel knows her so well—that he predicts with absolute accuracy what she's about to do.

"Gabriel! My god, please, let me!" Mercy starts, gripping her Caduceus staff tightly as she makes several hurried steps closer, clearly intending to bend over him. Reaper, however, snarls and lurches upright with what strength he still possesses, thrashing about with furious attacks at the medic.

"Get away from me!" He spits, wildly clawing at her with blunted talons that never reach her because Jack takes Angela by the shoulder and yanks her back. "Don't you dare touch me! It's your fault-!"

The Reaper keels sideways with a strangled snarl of pain, one hand coming up to clutch his chest as the heavy bleeding only gets worse. Angela tries to jerk away from S76, hand outstretched with a desperate look on her face but is once more met with frenzied attacks which miss her by inches.

Tracer's liquid brown eyes are wide with sorrow and sympathy and her heart feels like a knife has been stabbed into it—like she can feel every ounce of pain that Gabriel does. It tears her apart that he won't let Mercy help, and she sees Jack's patience stretching thin. He's barely holding himself back from absolutely laying into the Reaper for actively trying to hurt Angela like this.

It is too much. She sees the divides forming between the three of them and she can't stand by and watch it happen!

She throws herself between Reaper and Mercy, while the critically wounded harbinger of Death is still desperately trying to fend her off. Feels his talons bite shallowly into her shoulder. Watches him reel back the moment he realizes what he's done. Gabe is actually trembling as his body seems to be descending into shock, and blood loss begins to kick in, and he's had every self-defense mode you can think of triggered.

So no. Tracer doesn't blame him for the row of cuts across her upper arm. She doesn't even flinch. She rips off her goggles and carefully reaches out to take his free hand in both of her smaller ones, soft, round eyes staring into the black eye sockets of the off-white skull mask.

"Shhhh, it's alright... Shhhh... Just calm down. It's alright," she coos, very gently.

Tracer watches Gabriel go very still for a long, long moment until finally he lets out a breath that causes his entire frame to tremble. She throws her arms around his neck and buries her cheek against his armoured shoulder, feeling him go rigid for another moment.

It has been a long, long time since someone hugged him, and Reaper isn't expecting it from Tracer. He's just slashed her with his talons and she's still simply trying to calm him down. He cannot fathom the kindness and love a single person must be capable of in order to care so deeply for someone like him, someone who's so absolutely _broken_ he shouldn't really be considered a human being at all. Feeling utterly exhausted and spent, Reaper finally surrenders himself to the gesture, sagging against her as she wraps her arms snugly around his neck.

"That's it, love... That's it... It's alright, now," Tracer whispers, just holding him close against her even as she feels warm blood, leeching between his fingers pressed against his chest, soaking the front of her jumpsuit.

After a long moment, the young time traveler shifts just enough to peer over her shoulder at Mercy and nods, gesturing loosely with her chin at the cabling that the Reaper has gotten tangled up in. Lips pursed tightly, the Swiss doctor simply nods back, and Tracer turns back to holding Gabriel close, softly whispering reassuring nonsense words in her light accent.

From behind Angela, where literally the majority of the team is waiting on the catwalks, Torbjorn pushes Junkrat to the side and lumbers up closer, looking a bit critical of the Reaper but at the same time the Swedish engineer can't deny the little tug at his heart at the young British girl's actions. He produces a heavy set of wire cutters which he flips expertly around before offering to the medic. She smiles gently, taking them before moving forward towards the Reaper in black and the Brit in orange, with 76 following immediately after her. He doesn't think there is a whole lot that Gabriel can do, but also doesn't trust his former-friend at all.

Reaper goes a little rigid, letting out a low, rattling sound of warning. Tracer's arms tighten just a little more around his neck, and her murmurings get a little quicker, trying to rapidly reassure him. "It's alright, it's alright. Shhh... Don't worry. I'm not gonna let her hurt you, love. Shhh... Just let Mercy cut you free for now..." the young Brit soothes, and finally he deflates a little, bracing against her.

Mercy moves quickly and expediently, motioning wordlessly with commands he can't refuse for the Soldier to lift this cable or hold that one as she clips them. She still has to remove all the barbed ends, and so leaves enough of the cable to locate each one, but there are more Talon soldiers rushing the base every moment and they do not have the time to handle Gabe's wounds completely, much to her great displeasure.

Sometime as Mercy works, Lucio quietly skates up, and the musician-turned-freedom-fighter produces a large swath of gauze and reaches out to hand it to Tracer. It's pretty clear that the dark-skinned man wants to help more, but has a healthy enough sense of caution to keep his distance for now, which Tracer thinks is best. There's no need to crowd Reaper when he's touchy enough as it is. Still, she sends Lucio a deeply grateful look, and shifts slightly to press the gauze against Gabriel's chest. He moves his hand away for her to better press the patch against his wound and she feels his sticky gloves gently try to take her hand's place but she doesn't move. He sighs at her stubbornness, and Tracer hears the wetness of blood in his lungs. She hopes that doesn't get worse...

When Overwatch's Angel has finished her work, she steps back, handing Torbjorn his tool, and for a moment, she looks torn, again. It is the Soldier, though, who puts words to the problem. "We _need_ to get going _now_ , before Talon catches up with us."

Tracer gnaws on her lower lip. She's pretty sure the Reaper trusts no one but her at this point, but he's so weak right now from his injuries that she knows he can't walk on his own and she can't carry him on _her_ own. That's when she sees Lucio skate around out of her view to come into Reaper's.

"How about Tracer and I help you to the dropship?" The musician offers gently as he kneels on the floor, heedless of the pool of blood that smears over armour on his knees.

The Reaper eyes the dark-skinned man for a long moment, knowing full-well every second he wastes is another second Talon has to get to them, and finally, he nods. Lucio responds with a small smile and shifts forward to help Tracer get the larger man's arms draped over their shoulders so they can carry him. When he's upright, the Reaper glances at Soldier: 76 before gesturing with his chin loosely at Widowmaker.

"She's still in there..." He tells his former-friend, quietly.

"Amelie..." The old soldier murmurs, a note of regret in his tone. They each blame themselves to a greater or lesser extent for what happened to the Frenchwoman. Without further prompting, Jack walks over to the unconscious assassin and rapidly secures her with a couple of zip ties before hoisting her over his shoulder.

With all parties ready to go, the group continues to advance on their destination. The new Overwatch team is met by some resistance, but nothing that can withstand their combined power for long.

When they get to the hangar with the ORCA dropship, Hanzo moves to cover their backs at range, with Genji and McCree opting to assist the bowman, while Tracer and Lucio carry the injured Reaper into the vessel first, followed in small groups by the others. Winston heads up front to the cockpit immediately to get the engines fired up, and Soldier secures Widowmaker in one of the seats in the main bay, clipping the harness around her.

Tracer knows Reaper would prefer seclusion, but at the same time, his comfort is her top priority. Ultimately, she settles for the cushioned bench seating in the corner of the main cargo area of the dropship, and she and Lucio work furiously to staunch as much of the bleeding at both the entry and exit wound as they can.

By the time everyone is boarded, the usually spacious ship is—while not uncomfortably so—definitely snug, even as people spread out in the space available. It doesn't help too much that the Brit, the Reaper, and the Freedom Fighter have commandeered the booth in one whole corner.

Unfortunately, they are met with much greater resistance in the air than they did on the ground.

"Tracer!" The scientist up front hollers back from way up in the cockpit. "We've got four Talon dropships trying to blast us out of the sky! I need you!"

As if to emphasize the point, the whole ship shakes violently, shuddering and creaking and causing some of those within the ship to wince or flinch. Typically, Junkrat squeals, and can momentarily be seen flailing before reaching out to grab hold of his body guard and friend for both balance and reassurance. Roadhog grunts.

" _Shit_ ," the usually chipper Brit swears, turning a frantic look back at the Reaper. Duty calls, and she knows she's the only one that can get them out of this. But her heart stops her from immediately leaving Gabe's side.

" _Go_ ," Reaper orders in a wet rasp, putting as much force to the single word as he can. Tracer, sitting there drenched in his blood, has done more for him than he can ever allow himself to express thanks for, and he's not going to let her foolish hesitation on his behalf be everyone's downfall.

He flops out a hand, feeling drained, light-headed, and nauseous, but manages to give her a weak shove without feeling vertigo swallow him entirely. Lips pursed thinly, Tracer turns and winks out of his sight in a flash. Reaper turns his gaze to Lucio, whose motions become a little more reserved, clearly wary even of the critically wounded harbinger of Death, but he doesn't cease his efforts to staunch what bleeding he can, which has—thankfully—slowed dramatically by now.

Reaper waits, hissing now and then as the dropship shudders with another impact, or when they swoop into or out of a dive, pulling a 'G' or two's worth of force.

He doesn't know when he slides out of consciousness, which is more than a little disconcerting, but when he wakes again, it's to relative quiet. The ship hums softly, still in flight, but they no longer appear to be pulling evasive maneuvers.

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches the Reaper's attention, though, and when he catches a glimpse of white and gold in the dimmed lights of the cabin he throws himself to the side with a grunt, away from Mercy and simultaneously unsettling the weight that he hadn't realized has been pressed warmly against his side.

" 'Ey, hey," Tracer's voice comes from beside him—the weight that had been resting against him, he realizes with a start—and he sees her sit up into his line of sight, hand coming to rest gently on his nearest thigh. "It's alright. I'm right here. Everything is ok, love. We're just trying to get those barbs out of you. Mercy thinks it's what is stoppin' your self-regeneration."

She continues to stare at him, liquid brown eyes soft and warm and full of concern. He's thrown himself back a few cushions, still on the bench, thankfully, but his awkward sprawl is not at all comfortable.

The Reaper jerks his gaze over towards the Swiss doctor, who's kneeling on the far side of the bench, a small scalpel in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other. There's a metal tray of bloodied gauze on the table with at least one of the barbed hooks, trailing a short line of cable, visible inside. Mercy's gaze is level and calm, if greatly saddened, but she seems to be making no undue advances on him.

The doctor theoretically isn't a threat to him. At full strength- _hell_ , even at half strength-he can take her down without a problem; but he's lost a _lot_ of blood, he's not at all fit to fight, and he doesn't even know if he can shift into his wraith form, the combination of which leave him far more vulnerable than he's been in years.

Reaper's gaze shifts back to Tracer when he feels a gentle touch on his darkly gloved hand, and he tries and fails not to flinch. She threads her fingers carefully between his, inching closer before carefully ducking under his arm and gingerly pressing herself against his side.

"C'mon, now..." the Brit murmurs gently, and the angel of Death simply cannot fathom the kindness and gentleness she is showing him. Never in his life has he been treated this way, not even by his own mother. "I'm right here with ya."

Feeling a weary resignation settle inside of him, the Reaper slowly sits up, Tracer leaning in to take as much of his weight on her shoulders as she can, still keeping pressed against his side. When Reaper is upright again, Mercy carefully and quietly approaches again, and though he hisses a low warning at first, he falls silent as the doctor resumes her work.

Mercy has to cut away at the areas around the thick cloak the harbinger of Death wears, and initially his deathly-pale, dusky grey skin had alarmed her. She doesn't know what to make of the way the skin seems half-deteriorated, cool and almost clammy to the touch, like he's nothing but a corpse. Mercy feels the steady, burning gaze of her wary patient on her with every move she makes, but she continues on in silence.

When the doctor finishes, she gathers her equipment together and crosses to the far side of the room without a word.

Tracer doesn't move, though. She's tucked her heels up underneath her, and her slight frame rests lightly against his. Her eyes are closed but she has a soft grace and sweetness to her features and he thinks she's fallen asleep so Reaper doesn't dare try to bother her. And before he realizes it, exhaustion steels away his consciousness too, and swallows him in an embrace of blissful sleep once again.


	6. Blood on the Floor

**A/N: Hey, everyone. I'm really sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I just made a massive move and it was a super stressful, exhausting affair, so that's why I'm super late on updating. I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again. Additionally, this particular chapter was difficult to write, what with the direction I wanted to take with it and the way the chapter flowed fought me all the way... Anyway, hope the wait was worth it! Thank you all for your favourites and follows, and especially to those who review. Y'all are amazing.**

 **Also, I feel like I need to warn you guys, this chapter has some really dark themes. I don't want to spoil anything, but this is now an M rated fic. (Probably should've done that sooner, honestly...)**

 **Edit: Made some fixes to Gabriel's Spanish thanks to Dame Mond's amazing assistance! Thanks, dear!**

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 **"You aren't meant to carry all this sadness in your heart, you are supposed to set it free, let it escape, let it go." –Kriti.G**

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Reaper wakes to the sounds of bells. Distinct bells, of very distinct tones—three to be precise. It confuses him for a second, throwing him over 40 years into the past, to the memory of a small child, maybe six or seven, with dark skin and unruly, curly tufts of black hair who holds his mamá's hand as they walk into the small, stucco-covered church on the corner lot of a run-down neighborhood in L.A. It's about one of the only fond memories he has as a child...

Forcefully throwing himself back into the present, the angel of Death shifts slightly, causing the small Brit at his side stir. She groans softly and sits upright, where he watches her roll her shoulders sorely. More slowly, wary of the more-elevated-than-usual levels of pain he's experiencing, Reaper levers himself upright and braces on one arm as he throws a look around, trying to figure out where they've relocated.

At the time last night... morning... whatever, the Reaper hadn't exactly cared too much where they were going so long as he, Amelie, and the rest of newly-reformed Overwatch escaped Talon's clutches. And while he can't see much from the windows in the cargo area of the dropship, the distant sound of bells still ringing draws a series of memories, some good, but most bitter.

 _Dorado_. The central hub for the Lumerico Corporation, as well as personal breaking points of several kinds, for himself. He remembers getting pushed back by a superior force of onmics into the darkened city, where he, Jack, Angela, and the others had all scrambled to find a building they could fortify and hide in. They'd lasted the night, but only because a small family had gotten their attention, and with himself working as a translator—because, damnit, Jack had _always_ sucked at languages and Gabriel couldn't bear to listen to his best friend awkwardly stumble through fragments of sentences with the most ungodly of pronunciations—they'd soon had refuge for the night.

Before he can let his brain turn to the bitter memories he has of this place—which, ok, he knows he's only putting a temporary cap on them. He's purposefully ignorant of the way his coping mechanisms fail spectacularly, not _stupid_ —Reaper shoves himself to his feet, wherein the immediate consequences of this action make his head spin wildly as up becomes down, and the floor feels like it's just dropped out from under him. Nausea hits him in the stomach and he flails as he ungracefully crumples to the floor.

He shouldn't _have_ anything in his stomach, because he barely eats at all these days, but he gags as bile surges up from his insides and burns the back of his throat, even as he swallows thickly to prevent himself from spewing it all over the inside of his balaclava and mask. He doesn't need to deal with _that_ on top of everything else.

"Easy, easy! God, what were you _thinking_? You've lost a ridiculous amount of blood. You shouldn't've tried to stand up on your own!" Tracer berates him, and he feels her try to lean in and support him in any way she can. The both of them smell like blood, and her hands carefully ghost over his still-badly-wounded form. His healing factor still hasn't kicked in, which is getting more and more concerning.

The Reaper grunts, but shifts slightly and tenses up when he sees movement in the corner of his eye. He looks up to see Mercy and Lucio both start forward, with shared expressions of concern. It's so identical that he almost wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. It's been a long, long time since anyone has cared a speck about him or his well-being, and the realization twists his lips down from the smirk they've pulled under the mask into an astringent frown.

Something in his chest he'd been sure died long, long before his actual body did twists sharply in on itself.

"Gabriel? Gabe...? Gabe!"

He realizes after a long moment that Tracer is trying to get his attention, and he swivels his head to look down at her. The young Brit's expression is taught with worry and her liquid eyes are bright with distress.

"'M fine," he comments lowly, voice harsh and dry with pain and an explainable thirst for water. Admittedly though, it would help soothe the burning in the back of his throat and would wash the foul taste of bile from his mouth.

The Brit gives him a dubious look. "We should get you to the infirmary. We've just landed at the old post here in Dorado, Mexico," she adds, because Tracer knows soldiers get touchy when they don't know where they are. She'll admit, it's thoroughly disorientating not knowing, and Gabriel doesn't need any additional stress.

"I'll be _fine_ ," the harbinger of Death insists roughly, dragging in harsh-sounding breaths and she hears it when he sets his teeth against the pain. "I just need to clean up and rest. I'm not going anywhere _near_ a fucking infirmary with _Mercy_ around."

He watches the way the Swiss doctor's expression twists in a pain that reaches her eyes, darkening them, and she blinks a couple of times as her eyes gloss over with unshed tears of hurt. Angela turns away with a sharp movement, wiping briefly at the corners of her eyes as she crosses the space in the cargo area over to where the medical supplies have been stored and begins to pack them up. He doesn't intend to apologize.

Tracer shoots him a reproachful look, but thankfully she doesn't berate him despite how much she clearly wants to. Still, that rebellious look of hers lingers for a few moments before she speaks again. "Fine. But I need help carrying you, because you've still lost _way_ too much blood to actually walk on your own."

She doesn't miss the way his talon-tipped hands clench against his sides as he's bent over himself, still on the floor where he'd collapsed. He clearly resents needing help, for any reason. The Reaper has almost always worked alone, aside from a stint here or there, and before that, when Gabriel ran Blackwatch—and before that, Overwatch—he'd always been enormously self-sufficient. Tracer wonders what forged that need for distance inside of the man.

"I gotcha, man. No worries," Lucio speaks up, skating forward a pace.

Reaper takes a steadying breath, sucking it in from between his teeth set half in pain and half in frustration, now. "I'm _fine_..." he mutters lowly, now reaching out to steady himself with one hand on the low table beside him, and carefully un-tucks one foot from underneath him to plant solidly. It only shakes fractionally, which shouldn't be as reassuring as it is.

The angel of Death begins to slowly ease himself up, and hears the Brit huff sharply before coming up underneath him carefully, bracing his weight across her shoulders. She helps him upright, which comes with only a bit of dizziness and the feeling of his stomach pulling a couple of flips. They both make a step for the now-open cargo hatch, which a couple of people have already exited by (everyone's eager to actually get some rest in safety, and he doesn't actually blame them), and neither of them teeter terribly or fall over completely. Small victories.

It takes a painfully long time, during which Lucio keeps up with them for a short while before he seems reassured neither are going to collapse entirely and skates away, but Tracer and Reaper finally make it to the section of the base with habitation suites. He insists that she help him to one of the more secluded ones, a request which makes her roll her eyes, though she complies.

The both of them collapse back onto the bed in the back room of a set of quarters with a similar layout to the last place he'd bedded down in at the Gibraltar watchpoint, with Tracer panting heavily while Reaper is forced to take shallower breaths, labored and wet as he's aggravated his wound enough to the point of bleeding again.

Much to his own dismay, though, the Reaper elbows himself back upright after only a few moments to catch his breath. He's going to start bleeding through the fresh gauze if he isn't careful, and he doesn't want his bed soiled by it.

"I need a shower," Reaper announces, deciding he's had enough of the filth and stink of dried blood and such on his body and clothes.

Tracer sits up, too, a flicker of concern crossing her features. "Is that necessarily a good idea, love? We barely made it here, together and, I mean, trying to shower by yourself when you're as injured as you are-! I could..." she trails off and flushes brightly, having tried to imagine helping Gabriel—in an absolutely clinical, medical type of way—but absolutely cannot get past the idea of seeing the broad-shouldered, powerfully strong soldier stark naked.

Reaper can't help but chuckle at the way Tracer is suddenly blushing madly, her eyes wide, though his laugh is short-lived once again thanks to the stabbing, searing pain in his chest. Still, he manages a few more short barks of laughter as the Brit flails awkwardly at him, as though she's batting away a thoroughly intrusive idea.

"N-not like _that_ , love! I-I mean... Gabriel... you... you're hurt a lot, and... and... and..." She huffs sharply in sheer frustration, which has an almost whining quality about it as she realizes she's just digging herself an even bigger hole.

He snorts briefly, which once again aggravates his chest injury. "It's fine. I can manage just fine on my own."

Tracer folds her arms over her chest, still burning bright red right up to the tips of her ears, with patchy blotches of red all the way down her neck and her chest. "Fine," she repeats, and Reaper doesn't miss how she's either consciously or subconsciously mimicking his speech and movement patterns, now. "But I'm staying right here just in case something happens," the Brit adds stubbornly.

The angel of Death smirks in amusement under his mask, but nods his assent. "Alright."

He manages to stand without assistance and slowly makes his way across the room to the bathroom beyond the bedroom, where he closes the door. Once inside, he crosses to the shower and turns it on to start heating up. It'll take a while, he knows.

From there, he peels off the layers of tape holding the pieces of gauze to his frame, carefully laying them out on the counter to re-use after he's cleaned up. Reaper then pulls his hood down and removes the skull mask, lingering on the black balaclava. Turning away from the mirror in front of the sink, he carefully pulls the piece of clothing away from his face and deposits it over his shoulder next to the mask. Next are his steel-toed boots and his socks before he moves to carefully step into the shower.

Reaper leaves the rest of his clothes on for now, letting the hot spray of water wash over him, taking a few moments to completely soak him. He's thoroughly encrusted in blood, and he doesn't have the energy to try scrubbing it out just yet, so he just grips the support handle on one side of the shower and the curtain rod on the other and lets the hot water soak him.

Tracer, back in the bedroom, lingers on the bed for a few minutes, still catching her breath and slowing her heart rate-and trying very hard to get the mental picture of Gabriel completely unclothed _out_ of her mind. Seriously! This should not be as hard as it is!

Shoving herself to her feet, the time traveler huffs yet again and walks over to sit down with her back to the bathroom door with a soft thud. She tells herself it's only to make sure that she hears if Gabe slips or collapses in the shower. (After all, the stubborn idiot is still badly injured, and she has no doubt he's in severe pain. How he masks it as well as he does it utterly beyond her...)

She sits there in silence for a time, listening to the heavy patter of the shower, but otherwise there is little to fill the silence. Tracer tries humming to herself, but she knows she's always a little too high-pitched to actually be any good, and doesn't really want to annoy Reaper so she falls silent once again. Ultimately, though, the silence begins eating away at her patience and finally, she simply has to break it.

"Hey Gabe?" She asks, raising her voice enough to be heard through the door, and over the sound of the water.

Tracer's voice cuts cleanly through Reaper's idle thoughts, and he opens his eyes, turning the direction of the door, even though he doesn't necessarily need to. "What's up?" He asks, shifting a little under the hot spray.

"I feel like I hardly know you outside of the time we spent in Overwatch... Tell me about your childhood?" She turns the request into a soft question, carefully so, in order to not make him feel put upon. "Where did you grow up...?"

The angel of Death lets out a quiet breath. He's incredibly careful about his past, for a variety of reasons he doesn't often care to admit even to himself. But Tracer has done nothing but treat him with a kindness and love that he doesn't deserve but which she pours out to him endlessly all the same. He owes her this much.

"...A little neighborhood in Los Angeles called Lynwood. It was a pretty rough area, big gang territory and badly run-down, though not as bad as places like Compton," the Reaper begins, slowly sinking down so he's sitting under the warm water, which still runs a little rusted red down the drain, so he keeps his clothes on a little while longer. (He's not prolonging having to look at his own skin. _Nope_. Not at _all_.)

"My mamá, a sweet little _latina_ woman, fell in love with a wild, charming black man. Of course, he seemed like it at the time, my mamá told me. He was dangerous, and she liked the idea of dating a dangerous man for a little while. Two months later he moved in and she got pregnant, and after that, about 8 months later, I was born prematurely."

Tracer hums quietly. Prompting him further.

"Things... weren't so bad when I was younger. Mamá did a good job of sending me out of the house to play when papá came home angry. But I'd catch hints of the yelling when it was time to come home for dinner," the Reaper continued, tone a little softer, now. A little more strained.

Tracer purses her lips, and desperately hopes this _isn't_ going where she thinks it is.

He doesn't want to continue. He doesn't. He's never even told _Jack_ about these things back when the man was his best friend—perhaps his first and only real best friend, ever. So why is he telling the young Brit this?

The harbinger of Death balls his hands into fists, shoulders tensing which sends pain lancing through his chest, the ache grounding him.

"What... what happened next?" Tracer prompts gently, hearing his hesitation drawing out too far and knowing it only spells the worst without him even saying it yet.

Reyes can't say this while his mind is fully focused on it. He just _can't_ do it. Lurching to his feet, the Reaper begins stripping off his gloves with sharp, slightly shaky movements.

She hears him move, and then the sounds of buckles and snaps and the like being undone, and she colours a moment at the thought before her mind can refocus as he begins speaking again.

"It was the year I started first grade that things got bad. I'd come home from school some days to find papá _drunk_ , or high as a god _damned_ _kite_ , shouting and cursing mamá. He'd turn his rage on me, too, no matter how much begging and _pleading_ mamá would do..."

His voice has turned bitter now.

"Everything I did was _wrong_ whenever my papá was around. And of course I'd be so _damn_ _scared_ of doing something wrong that I'd try to move extra slow and extra careful in everything I did. So then he'd yell at me for being slow and I'd hurry and drop something or spill something or just make some _damned_ simple mistake which would make him even _angrier_!"

Reyes drags in a ragged breath that sends pain shooting through his chest, having discarded his gauntlets and the wraps up to his biceps, which are marked with a dozen puncture wounds stitched up as best as Mercy had been able to. The stitches are, in his opinion, not likely to hold but she had tried.

He begins working on the clips around his chest, before carefully peeling the front of his coat away from the hole in his chest, feeling the strands of fabric and leather slide out of the wound, catching slightly.

"...By third grade my papá had gone from verbal abuse to physical. If mamá didn't cook dinner just right, or didn't have it ready when he got home, or we were out of beer, or any other number of _simple_ mistakes, he'd start yelling, and then he'd get angry enough that he'd start slapping her..."

Reyes grunts, sucking in a breath and _somehow_ not making a noise to indicate how painful that had been. He tugs the coat down over his shoulders, hissing darkly as it sticks first in the exit wound in his back before it pulls free and he flings it out of the shower to the floor with the rest of his clothes.

"Mamá would... Mamá would try to..." The Reaper starts but finds it difficult to finish the sentence aloud. He's been holding it together pretty well up until now, but the agony in his chest is getting to him, and his bleeding has gotten even worse. "Mamá..."

He sucks in a heavy, wet breath that has nothing to do with being in the shower and everything to do with the renewed bleeding of the hole through his chest, now slowly oozing into his lung. Reaper struggles for a moment, leaning back to brace against the side of the shower, panting thickly in short, erratic breaths.

"Gabe?" Tracer's voice is sharp with concern and she shifts around, putting a hand to the door but doesn't dare open it yet.

"'M _fine_ ," the Reaper bites out sharply, hands curled into fists so tight that his nails bite into mottled grey palms.

He jerks around to tear the black, armoured undershirt off over his head angrily, trying to channel his mind into something productive so he can move past this _fucking_ mental block; but his harsh actions only cause him more pain, and the bleeding worsens to a thick stream, forcing him to bend over with an agonize snarl.

"Gabriel?!" Tracer hears a thud from inside the bathroom and it's the final straw. She abandons any concern she has for his privacy and lurches upright to push the door open. "Gabe?!"

She hears a strangled sound of pain from the shower and she blinks forward, hand extending to pull the shower curtain back a little to see what is going on. What she sees takes her completely off guard.

The Reaper is, in fact, completely shirtless, wearing nothing but his soaked, charcoal-coloured pants as he braces against the wall of the shower, smearing blood across the off-white linoleum. But it's the mottled, brown-tinged grey skin that stretches across most of his broad, thickly-muscled frame that steals her breath for just a moment. However, in the next instant she's back into action.

"Gabriel. Gabriel! C'mere. Seriously, please sit. _Please_ ," she implores frantically. The Brit actually steps into the spray of water, reaching out to put a hand carefully on his arm, trying to avoid the stitched puncture wounds there. She pulls lightly at his elbow, trying to get him out of the shower, and feels his great weight sway precariously. Ok. New plan. She needs to get him to sit down where he is.

"Gabriel, love, c'mon now. Just sit down, ok? Nice and easy, like. I gotcha. It's a'right, love. Please, just sit down," Tracer murmurs gently, coaxing the Reaper slowly down to the floor of the tub, where he slumps against the side wall with a soft groan. She whips around to turn off the water, before pushing the curtain aside and jumping out of the tub, rapidly blinking around the small space of the bathroom, trying not to trip over the sodden bundle of inky black clothes in the middle of the room till she locates a towel.

Blinking back over to the tub, Tracer wraps the towel around his shoulders, pressing the clean, soft cloth to both the entrance and exit wound, doing her best to staunch the steady flow of blood.

"Gabriel..." she murmurs softly, her heart straining inside her chest, feeling the sting in her eyes indicative of an oncoming wave of tears. The usually bright Brit tries to hold it back, but she simply doesn't have the inner strength to do so, and before she really realizes what's happening, Tracer finds herself crouched down in the tub next to him, gently applying pressure with the towel to his wounds, her face turned into his shoulder while she sobs uncontrollably.

The Reaper feels something in his chest wrench and _twist_ painfully, and tries to ignore the way his vision swims just a little. He turns to press his cheek against her dark, chocolate brown hair which is plastered damply against her skull.

In that moment, Gabriel Reyes's world stops spinning, and he dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, he's found something in the world to hold onto besides the pain.


	7. Pillow Forts

**A/N: I sincerely apologize for yet another long wait! My life has been a bit of a mess lately, and I won't bore you wonderful people with the dryness of it. Suffice it to say I've got a long list of chapters finally sketched out to draw from! So the story will be more organized to come! Thanks everyone for your patience and love. Ya'll are amazing!**

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 **"** **I didn't realize until those few days how much a hug meant. To have someone hold you could be the greatest medicine of all."** –Melina Marchetta

/

The Reaper and the Brit hold one another for a long time… He isn't sure how long it lasts, but after a while Tracer stops crying, though her shoulders tremble a little while longer. Reaper just does his best to hold her, cheek pressed to the top of her head, taking in this memory and preserving it as best he can, because he isn't sure when or if this will ever happen again.

An eternity passes, and it could've been the blink of an eye instead but it doesn't matter because no matter what happens, he has this memory, the best memory he knows he's made in _years_ , if not his entire life. And he'll take it to his grave for the second time, whenever that day comes. Because this… this is his, for as brief of a period of time as it will last.

Finally, Tracer shifts a little, and he lifts his chin and removes the arm he has draped around her—he literally didn't and still doesn't have the strength to do more than rest it on her hip and try to hold her a little closer. She groans slightly as she shifts.

"God, I'm sorry… my feet are going to sleep," she admits apologetically, boosting herself up to sit on the edge of the tub with a grimace. There isn't a lot of space in the tub, after all.

Tracer rotates and flexes her feet, feeling her running shoes squelch slightly. She grimaces. They're both still quite damp, and the chill is beginning to sink in. After all, the base has been shut down for years, ever since Overwatch was disbanded by the Petras act. Heating up a space as massive as the base here in Dorado takes time, and they're admittedly far from the centre of… well, everything. She suspects the only reason Gabriel got hot water is because the piping system, while having a fair amount of distance to travel, doesn't have the same buffering problems as the furnace with a space this size.

"It's mighty chilly in here, and we're both soaked. Let me find us some dry clothes and some blankets and stuff and get you situated on the bed?" the Brit offers brightly, before she seems to realize this involves first leaving him here…

Reaper doesn't miss the way her expression falls with realization and he lifts his hand enough to give her a 'go on' sort of wave. "I'll be fine, here, I promise. I'm not going to die anytime soon," he promises with a small smirk.

Her eyes come up to his face, and he doesn't miss the stillness that takes her momentarily as she takes in for the second time how deathly pale he is. The scars that mark his face. The dark circles around his eyes, which are somewhat pale and a little cloudy. He breaks eye contact first, turning his head away and looking down at his hands in his lap.

Tracer frowns and leans forward, tousling the short, relatively drenched, dark curls on top of his closely-shaven head before she pushes a kiss to his scalp. "I won't be long, love," she promises, stepping out of the tub and rapidly crossing the bathroom floor.

She mostly closes the bathroom door behind her, to give him some privacy while still seeing the doorway to the bedroom. The Reaper waits until he hears the soft sound of the front door closing, wherein his heart clenches momentarily as he realizes he's utterly defenseless—his weapons lay on the counter on the far side of the bathroom, which would be utter hell to get to and he doesn't have the reactions to make it there in an ambush—before hearing the softer click of a key locking the door. He sighs softly, thankful for Tracer's thoughtfulness.

It's only when she's gone that doubt begins to creep in. There's no reason for Tracer to continue acting the way she does. He has nothing for her, nothing he can give her that literally any other person can do better.

He is a _monster_. The Reaper. The Angel of Death. He is a corpse, somehow kept alive through terrible means of science the likes of which never should have even been conceived let alone used. He should have died in that explosion… But Talon brought him back with Mercy's own technology. And in his pain, he lashed out. He's been lashing out ever since. Which is putting it too kindly, to be honest. He's the most wanted man in the world for a reason.

Honestly, Reaper's just waiting for Tracer to figure that out. To find something that utterly repulses her. That sends her running. Something which makes her wonder why she ever believed he was worth every kind word and gentle touch she has ever bestowed upon him.

And it'll hurt like _hell_ when she finally figures it out. He's being pretty selfish, quite honestly, hanging on to every moment he gets with her, instead of telling her to go away for her own good. But it feels like the majority of his life he's been suffering, and he can't even imagine willing himself into sending the bright, beautiful, chipper Brit away. She's put so much life into him… He's pretty sure he might honestly lose the will to live if she left him.

For so very long, Reaper's rage has been the thing that fuels him. Even before the Fall, it was a driving force for the bitter, world-weary Blackwatch commander. He's been angry at Jack, angry at Angela, angry at Overwatch, at the UN, at Talon, and the whole goddamned _world_.

He's heard that rage is a powerful thing, making you stronger than you thought you were, but also stupider. He's not about to admit it to anyone, maybe not even himself, but it's a fair assessment. It's the rage that's been fueling him on all these years, but that's fading somewhat, and now he thinks if— _when_ —Tracer gives up on him, he won't be able to fall back on that rage. The Reaper will have nothing left to keep him going. It's a terrifying thought, to be honest.

Tracer, meanwhile, scurries around the base, hurriedly gathering together the items that she needs. The compound has a couple of pretty large storage rooms for various things needed to sustain those working here, and it's a pleasant surprise to find that the majority of the things here haven't been touched since the last time the base was needed. It's probably why Winston chose it.

The first storage space she steps into is full of bedding and pillows and towels and such piled high on shelving units. Tracer supposes they were lucky to have found towels stashed in the room they had, and hurriedly collects about four more before she grabs a set of sheets, and a couple of blankets, tucking as many pillows under her elbows as she can.

Tracer realizes then that she _definitely_ isn't going to be able to carry all of this in one go. She's practically _swimming_ in nothing but heavy fabric, which is the amount she'd imagined in her head when picturing all the comfortable fluffiness she wants to pile around Gabe… just… it didn't quite match up with the cute little pile she'd envisioned this trip to take…

"Tracer?"

"Reinhardt!" The Brit spins around, dropping pillows as she does so, and scrambles, trying to catch them as she feels them slipping, only to find her tower of fabric tipping precariously. Tracer tries to compensate, but it's pointless, and ultimately, her entire stack spills over to land at her feet.

A bit of colour brightens her cheeks as she realizes she's standing there, soaked and swimming in fabric. She smiles awkwardly and offers the warrior a small wave.

Reinhardt snorts, and steps a little closer, beginning to re-stack the bedding. "You look like you could use a bit of help," he offers, and it's painfully clear she does.

"I… I got it!" She chirps lightly, quickly stacking the pillows on top of the pile before realizing just how tall this thing actually is.

The aged warrior simply laughs and scoops the entire pile up to tuck under one arm before Tracer can begin lifting it again. "I've got it. What else do you need?"

She's pretty scarlet by now, huffing softly and putting her hands on her hips to stare back at Reinhardt for a moment. She knows she isn't going to win this, though. The kindly German is awfully stubborn. Tracer sighs in defeat. "Oh… alright. But I'm not gonna let you carry everything!"

Reinhard merely chuckles softly and follows Tracer around as she gathers a few other things. She locates a storage room that holds a surprising variety of clothing and armour, and she locates one of her old suits, which she grabs, in addition to a big, comfy sweatshirt, and finds a small pile of blue cargo pants that she thinks are Gabe's, and soft jacket.

She's about to lead the aging German back to the habitation suits when she catches a glimpse of the pantry… Lips pursed, Tracer blips in and grabs two cans of soup, before she blips back out to lead the way back.

It's taken a little longer than Tracer had wanted… Ok. A lot longer. And she's almost biting her nails as she pulls the key out of her pocket to unlock the hab suit's door. She jangles the doorknob, trying to get it open and when she does, she darts inside, dumping her load on the tiny table in the kitchen and rushing into the bedroom, turning the corner into the bathroom, her heart clenching.

Reaper lifts his head tiredly from where he's braced it against the shower wall, and manages a weak smile. Tracer feels some strain in her chest lessen, because if he really was in utter agony, she's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to muster a smile for her.

"We're back," she chirps softly.

"Who's 'we'?" the Reaper questions, voice a dull rasp, but he doesn't cough or hiss or clench his teeth too badly.

"Reinhardt and I. He gave me a hand when I needed it," she explains and sees his brows arch down just a bit, mouth twisting a little and pursing. Oh yes, he's so very independent, and she knows he hates the fact that he's even relying so much on her. The fact that it inconveniences her… Tracer offers a gentle smile, hoping it'll reassure him as best as she can.

She turns to dart back into the entry/kitchen/dining room and grabs the pants and jacket from the pile, and two of the towels, before pausing to look up at Reinhardt, who's patiently standing there with the bedding. "I don't suppose you could help me get the bed made while Gabe changes…?"

"I'd be happy to help," the old German responds and waits for Tracer to dip back into the bathroom with the change of clothes. When she returns, they rapidly begin dressing the bed, first with the sheets, and then situating the blankets and pillows. There's a lot of fluffing the pillows and shaking out the blankets to air them out.

The Reaper hears the scuffling and soft sounds of fabric rustle and Tracer's occasional giggle as he changes. He slowly peels the soaked pants down his legs, wary of his injured chest, and shakes them off his ankles. The next most important thing—and perhaps it should've been the first—is re-applying the bandages to the bullet wound through his chest.

He walks over to the sink, pulling the towel back that he and Tracer have been using to staunch the bleeding. It's slowed again, now coming in a few beads, weeping slowly from the wound. The swaths of gauze still lay on the counter, beside his guns, and he picks one up, careful of the tape on the edges, and re-affixes it on his front, following it up with the second piece on his back. Reaper grits his teeth throughout the entire ordeal, but takes it slow so as not to stress the wounds more than necessary.

With his injuries sorted out for the most part, he turns to towel off a little more and turns to the small pile of clothing Tracer has gotten for him. The familiar pair of navy blue cargo pants and the soft grey sweatshirt makes him purse his lips, feeling an uncomfortable flare of melancholiness grab a hold of his chest and _squeeze_ … though that might also have something to do with the fact that he can't take in a full breath. In any case, he shoves his mental issues back and carefully dresses, finally emerging slowly from the bathroom.

Reaper braces on the doorframe, blinking at the sight before him. Literally, not ten minutes before, the bedroom had been nothing more than a slightly-yellowed mattress and box spring on a simple metal frame, and now is covered in several blankets, with mounds of pillows all over.

Reinhardt stands there, grinning brightly, arms folded over his chest, apparently greatly amused by the look of surprise on the Reaper's face. Which he is suddenly enormously self-conscious about. He frowns and reaches up to pull his hood over his head with a quiet little huff.

Tracer giggles softly and zips back over to the Reaper, suddenly appearing at his elbow and ducts her head under his arm. He won't say it, but he appreciates the assistance. He's feeling pretty light-headed to be honest, and distinctly not at all up to par. The German even steps forward, laying hands gently on the Reaper's shoulder and upper back, and between the two of them, they help him over and onto the bed with minimal grunting and groaning and general painfulness.

And without expecting a thank you or even a nod, Reinhardt turns with a wave and exits the bedroom. After a moment, they hear the soft latch of the front door, and his lumbering steps go quiet.

Tracer wastes no time in zipping around to his side, smiling brightly at him. "You must be absolutely famished. I'll just be a moment!"

She's gone the next instant, and the Reaper hears noises in the kitchen, the sounds of cabinets being opened and shuffled through, and after a couple of long moments there's a victorious shout. "Found 'em!"

Reaper finds himself frowning in confusion, listening for a while, before hearing the microwave in the kitchenette pop open, then closed, and starts running. It isn't long before Tracer stops the microwave, and a few moments later comes bustling into the bedroom with a pair of steaming bowls.

"Here you go, love! I'll just be a moment to change, myself!" she promises brightly, placing one bowl on the bedside table and holding the other out to him. He takes it, feeling the heat seep into his palms. Tracer gives him a short smile before she rushes off into the bathroom, grabbing her change of clothes as she goes.

She doesn't take long—Reaper belatedly wonders how she isn't starving all the goddamn time with just how much she runs around. Her cardio must be absolutely fantastic—and before long, she's back out, hair a little tousled but drier, in bright purple leggings and a big, comfy-looking sweatshirt, her chronal accelerator strapped around her chest, causing it to bunch here or there. The young Brit looks amazingly beautiful, even with how not put-together she is right now…

Tracer hurries back over, picking up her bowl of soup and coming around to climb up onto the bed as well, sending a swift look his way. "How ya' feeling, love?" she asks gently, reaching a hand out and setting it on his forearm.

The Reaper is not much of a touchy-feely person but it's just her, with no one else around to judge… so he doesn't mind. He finds himself smiling, just a little. "I'm feeling better… thanks, Tracer."

She wonders if he knows he doesn't _have_ to call her by her call-sign all the time. God knows she's not too likely to call him Reaper unless she absolutely _has_ to—which she can't imagine why she would. But still, Tracer decides it isn't a time she has to bring it up. "Good. Bleedings stopped, I hope?" she asks instead.

He nods. "Mostly. It's just a little bit by now. Should finish clotting, and laying back'll help," he adds, now picking up the spoon and carefully taking a bite of the chicken chilli—and is surprised to find that it doesn't suck. He notes out of the corner of his eye Tracer shoot him a knowing look, and takes a bite of the english chowder she'd snagged for herself. The pantry apparently was surprisingly-well stocked.

They eat in silence for a time, Reaper reminding himself that this is just a little something to kick-start his regeneration, as it's been completely out of whack since getting the shit electrocuted out of himself. If you could call 'out of whack' just plain not _working_.

Tracer takes both bowls back into the kitchenette when they are finished, and just sets them in the sink and fills them with water before heading back, and jumping on the bed! It doesn't shift badly, considering she weighs something like a hundred pounds soaking wet.

The young Brit scurries back up into fluff of pillows and the Reaper somehow finds her leaning against his shoulder with a soft sigh. Of course, he's not at all about to protest. The warmth she simply _exudes_ seeps into his core, warming his usually-chilled body.

She's so good for him… and he's so bad for her… Reaper knows he shouldn't take advantage of her kindness much longer. He doesn't _deserve_ it, and sooner or later, she's going to get hurt, because… people always get hurt around him. It's just the way things are. But his little heart is greedy enough that he can't bear to send her away right now. So he takes it in, her warmth, her soft rosy smell, the way her long bangs fall in loose curls over her eyes; he does his best to memorize it, knowing it can't last forever…

He wishes it would last forever…

Because the way she holds him… it makes him dare to hope. And hope is such a foolish, fickle thing. But _damnit_ , he wants to hope. He _needs_ to hope. So he finds himself wrapping his arm around Tracer, bringing her a little closer, practically clinging to her… because he _needs_ to hope.


	8. I've Had Enough Hurt-Hope

**Author's Note: Soooo…. Hello again. This is a far stretch from the promise I made last chapter, and I sincerely apologize for that, guys. I've struggled with a lot of writers block, and a lot of depression and anxiety over the last few months, in addition to just downright being busy as hell. Now that I'm back in school, and my routine is getting settled, I feel a little bit better, so I'm hoping I can keep a somewhat-steady pace. I really, really appreciate everyone's feedback and comments, and I'll admit ya'll have given me some interesting thoughts and new perspectives as to how this story will go! So thank you! We** ** _will_** **be seeing more of Widowmaker, and some interesting twists and turns further along this adventure! So thank you guys. Really. As usual, please leave any comments you want, and I look forward to other suggestions you have! You guys are amazing.**

/

 _"_ _I've had enough hurt already in my life. More than enough. Now I want to be happy." –Haruki Murakami_

/

The stillness of the room is a sensation the Reaper experiences often enough. He prefers quiet areas, spaces devoid of distraction, devoid of annoyances. And with the quiet reassurance of the Brit by his side, a soft warmth almost oozing life back into him, he feels himself sliding towards the welcoming embrace of sleep.

He hears a subtle but distinct weight of footsteps out in the hall, passing by the room. Heavy and steady, pausing momentarily at the nearest point of their room. Reinhardt. More than likely coming on by again to make sure everything is ok.

There's a small whir as the heater kicks back on again, wheezing and thrumming, and then a vibrating rattle from the vents as the whole system strains with the effort put upon its aged frame. The rattle is vaguely reminiscent of the sounds of an ORCA dropship, smooth and thrumming and…

And then there's a solid thump, like a crash, and Reaper's eyes snap open to darkness and a soft red light vaguely illuminating the space. The droning's still there, but it's pitched towards a whine, with a constant, shaking rattling of gear and crates and the exterior plating strapped to the sturdy frame of a Talon dropship.

The vague, red lighting flickers out to pure darkness, through which the Reaper strains to see through, feeling an uneasy sensation of uncertainty and danger on the edge of his range of perception.

The lights come back, a little brighter, flickering slightly before solidifying, and he rears back when right in front of him stands Widowmaker, her soft lilac skin a heavy shade of fuscia and sharpened by black shadows but those sickly-golden eyes peer sharply at him, as though they could pin him down, like an insect under a needle's point, where he is seated. She's leering at him.

With a heavy snarl, the Harbinger of Death tries to push himself off of the bench he's seated on in order to launch himself at the assassin, fully intending to let his talons wipe that predatory, self-satisfied smirk off her face… Except… Something _feels_ off. He looks down, and though the red light and the heavy shadows make it difficult to see, the glistening shine drenching the whole front of his chest, streaming from a great hole in his chest, is obvious.

The lights go out again.

He strains, desperate to escape, desperate to defend himself, but his limbs are so heavy he can't _move_! Reaper tries to thrash and shout and snarl and fight his way free of the darkness when the lights come on again, brighter, sharper, glaring in his eyes. He looks down and sees blood, definitively _blood_ , soaking the black fabric of his shirt and spattering the dark armour on his chest, feeling the agony caused by such a wound, but he can't move to staunch the bleeding because his limbs… his limbs feel like they have weights strapped down… no. He shifts his gaze further down, to see they have been belted down. He feels a simultaneous flash of fury and terror.

The Reaper hears silky smooth laughter, eerie, like music that sends chills popping down his arms and lifts the hair on the back of his neck. His eyes dart back up to see Widowmaker leaning over him, laughing softly. And before he can throw himself at her with all the ferocity of a wild dog, he watches in confusion as her face begins to shift. And his confusion turns to abject horror as he starts to recognize the face now staring back at him, still smirking with that predatory glint and giggling at him.

Her eyes are that same liquid brown, but all the warmth is gone from that gaze, replaced by a sharp, hungry amber glow. All the softness of her face is gone, sharpened by the harsh glare of the light, her skin pale like death…

" _T-t-tracer!_ " He shouts, struggling with words as he feels the agony in his chest burn even brighter, and his words taste like ash in his mouth. "T-tracer, pl-ease… this isn't y-you… p-lease… I never w-wanted this for anyone e-else, _please_ d-don't do this… _Tracer_ -!"

Reaper shoots upright, gasping and heaving, a noise torn from his throat so full of agony and regret and sorrow it is almost inhuman. His eyes dart around the dimly-lit space-no red light. No Talon dropship. Just the chilly barracks.

A soft touch on his arm inspires a vicious flinch, and the Reaper rears back, hands like claws coming up in his defense as he orientates towards the threat, heaving and snarling, struggling to fight for breath and feeling like every fibre of his body is on the verge of collapse when his eyes land on her.

Tracer's soft features attentive to him, liquid brown eyes gentle and wide with concern and something that is unsettlingly similar to fright. She has a red mark high on her cheek, which seems to be swelling a little but her whole focus is on _him_. He notices her lips are moving, but he hears her voice as though through a tunnel.

"Gabe… Gabe, it's ok. It's ok, Gabe. You're safe, I'm here. You're safe. It's ok…. Shhhh… it's ok," she insists softly. The Brit stretches one hand out, wrist looking slim and delicate at the angle she offers it out, but he knows she's far from weak.

Reaper can't shake the mental image of her fanged smirk and predatory eyes from his mind though, and with the sheer agony he's in-defensive instincts once again screaming for control-it takes him a moment before he dares to even lower his guard, much less reach out an almost-trembling hand towards hers in response. He doesn't dare to tear his gaze from her face, trying to burn the nightmarish image from his mind. So it's because the Reaper is watching her that he notices when her eyes-somehow-widen even further in shock and fear. The Brit's gaze is locked on his own outstretched hand, and he lets his gaze slide down…

What Reaper sees strikes fear sharply into the core of his being. His pale, sickly-grey hand is crisscrossed with small fracture lines, and as he watches, his fingertips turn to ash and begin to flake away, becoming smoke. He gasps sharply which immediately turns into a coughing fit as he tastes hot air and burning ash suffocating him, the fiery agony in his chest worsening.

Both his hands have gone bitterly cold, as well as his feet, the feeling slowly crawling up his appendages and he drags his hands up before his eyes, seeing them turning into a wispy, flakey smoke.

This can't be happening! It _can't_! It's been _years_ since he lost control over his wraith form. He hasn't struggled with it since Talon resurrected him, and he spent those long, long months enduring… intense torture… all in the name—later—of _training_ him. (He'd endured it because he _had_ to. Because ultimately, he needed to find out who had betrayed him to Talon. The signs had always been there...)

"T-tra-cer…" he wheezes, struggling for breath and trying to fight the panic that's gripping his burning chest. His eyes dart up desperately towards her, wishing she doesn't have to see this, him losing control. _Why_ is he losing control?!

"It's ok, Gabe. Just focus. It's ok. I'm right here. You're ok," Tracer insists, leaning forward, eyes clear of fear and panic and replaced by a calm focus, reaching out to him—even though they both know he's hurt her so much already. She just keeps reaching out like this and he can't fathom _why_! And she brings her hands to gently cup his jaw line. Miraculously… he doesn't shatter entirely into smoke and ash and embers.

Encouraged, she leans in closer, climbing over tangled blankets and presses her forehead to his, easing her small frame up against his broader one. Reaper waits for something catastrophic to happen. For him to lose all control and sink into a smoldering, swirling mass of wispy smoke, but he remains solid, chest rising and falling erratically with heavy, labored breaths… but the fire seems to be abating, leaving just an agonized ache in his chest.

"That's it… that's it… there we go, love…." Tracer whispers, letting her hands slowly drop from his face, to rest against his chest where she applies light pressure to the bandaged wound. He takes a quiet, sharp breath in pain, but forces himself to relax. He won't do himself any good if he remains stiff and frozen, putting undue strain on his wounds.

After a long moment, he speaks. "I'm sorry…" Gabe murmurs. "I'm sorry… I just wish, for _once_ , something would go right. Just… just this _once_ … I _need_ that hope..."

"Things _are_! They are, I promise you they are. You're _back_. You're here and you're back to us all. Things are as they should be, with just about all of us together again. You aren't dead, Jack's not dead, Ana's not dead, Reinhardt's _happy_ , again. I haven't seen him so happy in years. We're working _with_ omnics, now! C'mon, did you ever think things could turn out so _wonderful_?" Tracer pressed gently, excitedly, tilting her head so she could look him in the eyes.

"I'd hardly say I'm not _dead_ ," he spat lowly, with a distinct note of self-deprecation.

"You're alive, and you are _here_ , and that's all that matters to me… we can always sort out the details later. We can get you and Amelie _better_ ," Tracer insisted, staring at him with such passion and determination burning in her eyes that it is impossible not to feel that little flame of hope spark in his chest. (He is pretty sure it is hope, and not the feeling that he is about to disintegrate into a creepy smoke monster…)

"Ok… ok…" The Reaper sighs softly. "I hope so."

"I _know_ so," the Brit asserts firmly.

"...Thanks, Lena," Gabriel murmurs, and watches her eyes widen in surprise before going misty with unshed tears, crinkling at the corners as a smile split her face. It's smothered just as quickly when she nuzzles in close, into the junction between his neck and collarbone, and hums softly.

"Any time," he hears her murmur softly.


	9. Monsters

**A/N: So I wanted to thank everyone who's commented on this. It really keeps me wanting to continue. And I am super sorry for the delay in posting this. Life happens. I won't bog you guys down with my sob story of life** **(secretly wishes people would ask, though.)** **Anyway... I won't abandon this thing, it just may take some time to write it. And of course with the lore always changing, it makes it difficult to keep this somewhat canon... so I'll just do my best and hope y'all can bear with me through this. Thanks again to everyone!**

" **I think one reason we endure more pain than we are capable of is because some of us force ourselves to see the good in everything until they turn out to be exactly what we hoped they wouldn't be."**

"We have a problem."

"No _shit_ ," says the swirling black ball of smoke perched on the edge of the bed, tendrils of inky blackness violently swishing back and forth reminding Tracer of a cat's tail after it's been particularly pissed off.

The Reaper is doing his absolute best to keep the panic clenching what… used to be his chest at bay, but his fear is getting the best of him. He hadn't meant to spit out what he had in response to Tracer's statement - her expression heavy with concern. He feels regret, and his form pulses somewhat, the swishing tendrils stilling somewhat as he tries to wrangle his rattled emotions.

Tracer notices the way the smoke rolls in on itself - on himself - and Reaper draws himself in tighter, like he's closing himself off from her. She extends a hand on instinct, like she would if she was putting a hand on his arm to help him relax, but all she feels is heat against her palm, and the wisps of ash flake and swirl around her finger tips. She grimaces, and further berates herself as Reaper's wraith form drifts even further backwards away from her.

"Ok," she sighs, desperate to be of some help even if she hasn't the slightest idea of what to do. "So how does all of this-" she waves a hand loosely at the ball of inky blackness "-work?"

"It's basically my default setting," the Reaper explains, his voice a heavy, dry rasp that perfectly matches the dry heat radiating off the swirling smoke monster floating gently on the bed. He's slowly darkening the folded-back sheets with the dust and smoke of his form, and Tracer idly wonders if it is actually leaving parts of himself there or if it's some kind of… byproduct of whatever it is his body is doing.

"I don't understand most of the technical mumbo jumbo of Mercy's designs, but her healing nanites were supposed to go in and repair decaying tissue, which they do. But something's bugged with them so they sometimes reverse their process and break down the tissue as well. I guess it's the whole, break down the dead tissue and use the core components to create living tissue. Or something. I've had a dozen different scientists explain it to me and not one of them sounded like they were speaking english, even if those were the words coming out of their mouths."

"So they injected you with… what, experimental nanites from Mercy's lab and tried to activate them?" The brit questions, brows furrowing more heavily. She was by no means up on the current HIPPA laws, but she knows without a doubt that what Talon did was definitely unethical in about a couple dozen different ways.

"That's one way of putting it," he answers, banishing the rush of a memory of waking from a dark nothingness with the feeling of his throat on fire, his whole body in the greatest agony he'd ever experienced, feeling each and every cell being broken down and destroyed. The roiling ball of ash and smoke tremored slightly, blurring around the edges as it became even less solid.

The Reaper gave a sound like a sigh, trying to give himself a moment to regain composure before speaking again. "There was a mole. Somewhere within Overwatch or Blackwatch or the higher ups there was a mole. Talon was always ten steps ahead of us, no matter how hard Gerard pushed us to do our jobs. And Gerard pushed us hard. He used Blackwatch as his own personal militia to hunt down Talon, but they always slipped through our fingers," he explains softly. It feels good to get this all off his chest. He's never trusted anyone before, especially knowing there was a mole in his ranks all those years back in Blackwatch, but he knows he can trust Tracer. He has to believe he can.

"As Talon became more and more elusive, Gerard become more and more _obsessed_ with hunting them down. Said we weren't doing our jobs well enough. He insisted we simply weren't doing enough to beat them. To catch them in the act. To get legitimate proof that Talon existed and bring them _down_. So he kept pressing, more and more. First the little things. A bit of coercion to get people's tongues loose. But… It only escalated. We did some really terrible things at Gerard's urging."

He doesn't know how much he should tell her. Tracer seems so innocent, and he can't fathom being the one to taint her with all the horrible, awful things they actually did in Blackwatch, but he's started on the topic, and now he can't stop himself.

"At first, I kept the more illegitimate, illegal actions from McCree and Genji and the others. I didn't want them to have to bear that guilt on their conscience because of the pressure Gerard was putting on us. I wasn't going to let that Frenchman further dirty those _boys'_ souls… but they found out anyway, and just as I feared they followed me head-first into hell, jumping without question because… because I was family…

"And all the time I knew there was a mole. Like I said, Talon was always ten steps ahead of us. All we ever found were crumbs of what was left behind. Enough to entice, enough to _goad_ Gerard on, but never enough to prove the existence of some shadow organization. Never anything that proved Talon was the cabal that we know it truly is."

"So you joined to find the mole…" Lena whispers, the realization of what Reaper is getting to finally dawning on her.

"Jack thought I was crazy. Said I'd gone too far in the past and I was going too far again now. He insisted it was all on me, everything that Blackwatch did. _Everything_." And this time there is malice in the Reaper's voice. The ball of smoke and ash pulses angrily, and Lena can see small flashes of embers flicker in and out at it's heart. "That I was making up justifications for allowing myself and my team to do… terrible, evil things. Jack couldn't see what was right in front of his nose all along. That the only way Talon could be stopped was to do the impossible. To become the monster they were. Only monsters fight monsters and win. There are no _dragon_ slayers these days. Only dragons who fight dragons."

"Those dragons can be saved, though. Like you did with Genji," Tracer interjects softly, her liquid brown eyes soft and sincere as she stares at his broken form.

The smoke thing scoffs, embers blossoming at it's heart and she feels the heat momentarily radiate from it. It's then that she realizes, really _realizes_ , it is quite _literally_ the Reaper's rage that keeps him going. And it is only this that worries her. That makes her fear quite suddenly for his life. It's a thought she rapidly shoves away to deal with at another time, though.

"The _monk_ saved that boy. I had nothing to do with it," the angel of Death insists lowly. And Lena wants to protest but he continues much too quickly. "Monsters corrupt good people. Just like he'll do to that omnic someday… Like I'll do to you if I don't leave at some point. Because I'm beyond saving. The day Talon revived me I was already tainted. They tortured me and convinced me to join, but I was already long past saving by the time they got to me. By the time they made me what I am today."

"...Which is?" She dares to ask. She doesn't want to. She wants to refute him, but she needs to know what is going through his head to make him think these kinds of things so that she knows what to say and how to say it to change his mind.

"A monster. The night they set the HQ in Switzerland to blow, Jack and I were in a heated argument about my decision to join Talon to get inside information on them. He was the only person I'd told, because we'd been fighting for _weeks_ about the things that Blackwatch did that were being exposed. And I knew I didn't have the evidence to prove to Jack that Talon existed-at least not as largely as I _knew_ they really were, and it was the only way I knew I'd be able to. Jack thought I set that explosion. As revenge. Because I was nothing but a monster-which was true. I _am_ nothing more than a monster. But that explosion was _not_ my _fault_."

"Wait… What?"

"I didn't set the Swiss Headquarters to blow," the harbinger of Death repeats evenly.

"But… everyone said…" Lena begins again before the Reaper angrily cuts over her.

"I _know_ what everyone said!" He snaps, the black ball of mist pulsing angrily with embers at his core once more. Tracer doesn't recoil. She barely starts at all when his tone switches to something more violent. She does go a little more still, though, cautiously watching him and immediately Reaper regrets raising his tone. He drops his voice again to the quiet, muted tone he'd used a moment before and continues. "I know what everyone said… But it wasn't true. Talon knew that Overwatch was on the verge of collapse. One of the factions inside Talon decided they weren't going to wait for the politicians to sort out our downfall, so they planted a bomb. They knew things weren't going well between Jack and I. _God_ , the whole _world_ knew that tensions were high. Things hadn't been good between us for… well… for a long time…"

The angel of Death recalls so easily all those nights spent drinking himself into the floor at a local bar, just to try to rid himself of the endless thoughts and regrets that haunted him during those days. Chafing under the restrictions and house arrest that Petras enacted to keep him and his team from going on any further missions. Between the drinking, and feeling like a caged animal, he'd been testy, short-tempered, and overall emotionally unstable. It had been easiest to pretend like he didn't care, which only pissed Jack off even more. But if he'd allowed himself to show that he cared, he would've simply exploded in rage at his former friend - which was what happened the night that the headquarters building was blown to hell. It was the shouting all day and the insults and the fighting that witnesses later had reported overhearing that had further tied him to the motive of wanting to cause the explosion.

"I remember," Lena interjects softly, stirring him from his heavy musings.

The ball of ash and smoke pulses slightly, almost as though he'd be agreeing with a nod. She would know. She'd been there that evening, witness to one of the last of his and Jack's arguments - fights, really - and had later been called upon to testify as such in front of the Board of Directors.

"Anyway, the explosion went off, bringing the ceiling down on top of us. I don't remember much about all of that, but I remember slowly bleeding out, my body crushed under that concrete support beam that had arched directly over the command console table. I had rebar stabbed through my thigh, and even now I still have the scar from it.

"I passed out from blood loss. I guess Talon found me first, because while I don't know what happened to Jack, I do know I woke up again, after I shouldn't have. I woke up feeling like every cell in my body was on fire, being broken down bit by bit. I remember the agony that felt like it would go on forever as I was broken down to nothing and then built back up, again and again and again as the nanites tried to restore my body to what should have been the 'default' setting. The nanites got it wrong of course. Obviously. I mean, I look like I damned corpse. But anyway...

"Talon wanted me for information. Doomfist thought I'd make an excellent ally. Regardless, they tortured me endlessly after they were certain that despite my… unique abilities that Mercy's nanites were still doing the healing they were supposed to, even though they also broke me down bit by bit.

"Every night I'd revert back to this… state of being, this… wraith-like form… to heal. Until I got a hold on how things worked with my new state of being. I eventually told them what they wanted to know. Weeks of nothing but rank, file, and number, and I decided it was pointless holding on to the loyalty of an organization that had called me a traitor anyway.

"Ultimately, I wanted to find the mole who'd betrayed me and my team in the first place, which is why I've hunted down Overwatch agents for as long as I've had the freedom to do so, but I lost my soul somewhere along the way. I'm a monster, so I do what monsters do. And I hurt people. I hurt innocent people."


End file.
